


Chronicles of Maedhros Getting Fucked Up

by rosebird612



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amrod lives in this one, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, First Age, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kinda?, M/M, Oath of Fëanor, Psychological Trauma, Years of the Trees, and later:, literally just a character study of maedhros, shit gets fucked up in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:41:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 35,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22515649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosebird612/pseuds/rosebird612
Summary: A character study following the life of Maedhros Fëanorion, the whole damn thing if I really have the time for that. I mean you know what to expect if you've read the Silm so major character death and injury/torture shit will happen!
Relationships: Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo & Sons of Fëanor
Comments: 9
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo I started writing this like a long time ago but writing character studies/psychological dramas really help getting into the writing *headspace* so I really just stuck with it. Enjoy! Lmk what y'all think in the comments or leave a kudos, I'm hungry

No one really knew why Nelyafinwë was so tall.

At first, he was just as small as all the other elflings. Just as round, too, though a little happier. His laugh often filled the house.

Then Makalaurë was born, then Tyelkormo, and Nelyafinwë hit his teenage years. He shot up like a bean sprout, and no one knew what to do. Fëanor was terrified he'd outgrow him at the rate he was going and the chefs couldn't seem to ever feed him enough. Even as thin and lanky as he was, he never grew outwards. Only up.

By the time Nerdanel was with their fourth child, Ñolofinwë had celebrated the birth of his second. This is what Fëanor really feared. Anairë was a small woman, but Ñolofinwë was considerably tall, getting his height from Finwë. Fëanor hadn't gotten his height from his father. He'd gotten it from his _mother_ , meaning he was about a head shorter than his half-brother. If that wasn't infuriating enough, he now had to look up at his son every time he wanted to speak to him.

The concern was directed towards Ñolofinwë's children. Although the first one clearly took after his mother height-wise, the second-born starting growing too quickly too soon. Fëanor needed Nelyafinwë to be taller so he didn't have to listen to Ñolofinwë's bragging.

Fortunately, Fëanor didn't have to hear any bragging. At the time Morifinwë was born, Nelyafinwë was so tall there's no way Turukáno could catch up. Even so, Turukáno grew taller than his older brother, taller than Fëanor, and taller than his own father. And yet more infuriating is how gracefully he carried said height. He was nimble as a cat and perfectly proportional.

Nelyafinwë continued to bang his head on doorways.

Turukáno never did end up surpassing Nelyafinwë in height, which solidified Fëanor's claim to the throne and filled him with pride (not as though he was already full of it). Nelyafinwë finally felt as though he'd made his father happy, a feat in itself, and carried himself with the kind of confidence that only a Prince of the Noldor could have.

Yet in their family, it was still only very clear how much larger Nelyafinwë was when he was around some of... the shorter members. Basically anyone married _into_ the family. At banquets, his brothers teased him endlessly about how it was impossible to lose him in a crowd. Even more so about how Findekáno had to stand on his tip-toes to even speak to him.

"That isn't true," Nelyafinwë tried arguing, his heart only half in it.

"Have you _seen_ him?" Tyelkormo scoffed. "He's the size of a cricket. He got all of Anairë's height."

"Not to mention that you're already a monster," Carnistir grumbled.

"Hey," Nelyafinwë warned, getting up from his seat. "I'm going out for a bit, so- Káno? Make sure no one breaks anything."

It was true that Nelyafinwë had to go out for a bit - he was supposed to meet with his father at noon to talk about _something_ \- but he didn't intend to come right back. Anytime he had a chance to leave the house and get some space from his brothers he'd take it.

He found Findekáno outside the royal meeting rooms, just between the walkway and the garden, looking conflicted. Nelyafinwë smirked. He'd been wanting to get to the meeting early, revise and look over his notes as he always did, but clearly this distraction may not allow for that.

"Findekáno," Nelyafinwë greeted. Findekáno's head shot up, eyes wide as though he hadn't seen him coming. "What brings you here this morning?"

Findekáno spluttered over his words for a minute before looking away, taking a deep breath, and beginning again. "I wanted to see you," he said, and that in itself was a feat. Nelyafinwë hadn't expected him to say something so bold. "I knew you had a meeting at noon, so..."

"And how did you know that?" Nelyafinwë couldn't keep the smirk off his face.

Findekáno flushed red all the more and averted Nelyafinwë's eyes. "My father wouldn't stop talking about your father involving you in everything. He says it's to make him mad."

"Ha," Nelyafinwë exhaled heavily. "Funny. Take a walk with me, yes?"

Findekáno nodded, head turned a little bit away while his eyes snuck glances. Nelyafinwë smiled wider and started off in the garden.

The day was bright and clear. Not a single cloud graced the sky, and in the distance, the ocean roared with larger-than-usual waves. In the garden, birds sang and harmless insects fluttered around their heads. Nelyafinwë couldn't help but stare at Findekáno - his hair glossy in their braids and the gold shining like his father's jewelry under the sunlight. And Findekáno, too, snuck stares. Nelyafinwë's hair must've been flaming red in the daylight.

"Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?" Nelyafinwë started once they'd gotten an appropriate length away from the meeting room doors. "You don't usually catch me at these times, nor where my father could find you."

"Yes," Findekáno agreed, but he didn't say anything else for a moment. A bluebird swooped down by their heads. "I, uh... I wanted to ask if you'd like to- um, go to the festival with me. Next week. I- um, I know-" He raised his voice a bit to stop Nelyafinwë from talking over him. "I know you probably have- have _duties,_ but- I don't know, maybe we can-?"

"I'd love to." Nelyafinwë nodded. His smile had grown more, watching Findekáno's nervous explanation. He was a child in most ways, still, and reminded Nelyafinwë often that he had just reached his majority. "If my father allows it, or if I can manage to sneak out, then yes. We can meet right here, yes? Like we have before. And Findekáno - there's no need to ask me so formally every time there's a festival. We've been going together since you were a small child."

Findekáno looked somewhat deflated, for some reason, but didn't say anything else. A nod is all Nelyafinwë received. He couldn't blame him; Findekáno was always so nervous around him.

"I know you don't think yourself brave, Findekáno," Nelyafinwë patted a hand on Findekáno's head and felt some satisfaction at the heat accumulating on his black hair. "But I know that you will be someday. Valiant, even. My Valiant Findekáno."

The two of them stopped in the middle of the path, then. Nelyafinwë glanced down at their feet - Findekáno stood up on his toes. The moment of sentimentality passed quickly. Neither of them knew what to say.

"I think we shall walk back now." Nelyafinwë nodded towards the meeting room and gestured at the papers under his arm. "I must look over my notes before it begins - you know how my father is."

"Yes." Findekáno went after him as soon as he'd started off. "Sorry to keep you. I know you like being organized."

"I am happy to speak with you anytime, Findekáno." Nelyafinwë patted his head once more and stopped once he'd gotten outside the doors. "I look forward to the festival. To spending time with you."

Findekáno, despite all his nervousness, managed to say, "We don't spend enough time together. It's always slipping away."

Nelyafinwë patted his head and brought him into a quick hug. "You are already bold. Now get going, your father shall be suspicious should you be gone too long."

Findekáno, looking so red he might burst, backed away down the road. "The downsides of being the eldest."

Nelyafinwë let out a vocal laugh by the time Findekáno had already turned to walk straight and fell into a line of giggles as he walked away. It was refreshing to hear a statement like that and made Nelyafinwë yearn all the more for him. 

The meeting, unfortunately, was nothing Nelyafinwë thought it was going to be.

Sometimes Fëanor did that, switch up the purpose for the meetings to keep everyone on their toes. How this was helpful in any way was beyond Nelyafinwë, but it was out of his reach to change it and unspeakable to _say_ anything about it.

"So the festival," Nelyafinwë started, face already reddening in the frustration that came with speaking to his father, "Is _mine_ to take care of? Why?"

"Because I have asked it of you." Fëanor sent a dangerous look, one thick eyebrow raised and his bejeweled hands laid one over another. "And it should be part of your duties now, to run events such as these. Everyone knows you have an eye for decor and excitement. That you get from me."

Nelyafinwë thought of the fantastic, famous parties and galas his mother threw as opposed to the dry, stuck-up ones his father did but said nothing about that. "I have already been planning to go with someone," He said, then immediately wished he hadn't.

"Ah?" Fëanor, as well as the advisors if Nelyafinwë were being honest, sent a suspicious look. "Who is it, then? Someone I know? The kind girl you had over for supper last week?"

Nelyafinwë scrambled for an answer. He was often set up on these "dates", mostly by his mother, but he rarely remembered the names of those poor girls. "Cánien." Maybe that was it. Hopefully.

It seemed to do the trick. It's not as though Fëanor would have remembered her name. He forgot his own son's names sometimes. "And I hope you will leave all your clumsiness at the doorway before you hit your head on it, yes?"

Nelyafinwë held back the need to say, "There are no doorways at an open-air festival", and instead just nodded. "Yes, sir. Of course."

That ended the dispute quickly. Nelyafinwë never liked arguments to go on for long, so he was actually glad when his father moved on and began to chew out one of the advisors for fraternizing with Ñolofinwëans. That part Nelyafinwë ignored, and instead looked down at his notes and wrote down "...Cánien..." with a star next to it. He'd remember that name. _Valiant woman, bold woman_ , it meant. Yes. He'd remember it. 

The festival was on track for being great.

Fëanor would even go so far as to say _wonderful_ , should no one else hear. The advisors were pleased, Finwë himself was even excited, and the people had been gossiping about it as soon as they heard the eldest son of the eldest son would be planning. Nelyafinwë was one of the most popular of the royal Ñoldor, and was known for more than just his party planning skills.

The festivities started just past midday, making endless time to wander, eat and drink, and enjoy the vendors. It was a midsummer festival, not as though the seasons made too much of a difference in Aman, and so the streets were appropriately decorated with blooming flowers straight from Vána's garden. Every vendor's set up was lined with strips Fëanorian gold and centered around the familial crest of Finwë. Fëanor himself wasn't entirely sure how Nelyafinwë had gotten all the metalwork done so quickly and without Fëanor himself knowing, but it matched the greens and reds of the vibrant flora.

And Nelyafinwë was nowhere to be found.

He seemed to disappear right before every single party, festival, or gala, and regardless of how close an eye Fëanor kept on him. It was outrageous! He was nowhere to be found and the festival had already begun.

"Makalaurë!" Fëanor turned a corner and grabbed Makalaurë's arm. "Where is your damn brother?"

Makalaurë raised his eyebrows. "Um, which one?"

Fëanor rolled his eyes. "Who do you think? Nelyafinwë. Where is Nelyafinwë?"

Makalaurë thought about this. "In his rooms, I believe. He spends hours on his appearance, father, he will be down soon."

Fëanor bit back a groan, composed himself, let go of his second-eldest, and started up the stairs. "Nelyafinwë!" He began to shout. There was a crash above, in the direction of Nelyafinwë's rooms, so Fëanor hurried. "Do you know how late you are? What are you up to in there?"

There was low murmuring, hurried murmurs, coming from Nelyafinwë's door. Fëanor narrowed his eyes and knocked heavily on its wood as soon as he came upon it. Nelyafinwë swore under his breath and stepped up to the door, soft leather sandals on his feet muffling the noise.

The door swung open, and here stood the eldest: Hair braided down to his hip with vibrant yellow flowers and gems of fiery red, face powdered and eyes lined, robes elaborately layered and gliding gracefully on the floor. As shockingly elegant as he looked, there was a hidden bit of panic set in his eyes. Fëanor was never fooled by his sons' acts. He read them right through every time.

"Care to explain?" Fëanor scowled. "Are you being coronated, or attending a festival in the streets?"

Nelyafinwë looked down at his clothes and frowned, a new panic overtaking him. "It is not right, isn't it? Lords, I knew I should have worn that new chiton, the one with the gold lining-"

As Nelyafinwë turned to go back and change, Fëanor grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the room. "You are testing my patience, boy!" He shouted, shutting the door behind them. "Do you wish me to go mad? I have been waiting for nearly an hour! The festival has already started! The people are gossiping that you've abandoned us forever! _Planning_ the festival is one thing, _attending_ it is another!"

Nelyafinwë shifted on his feet and stared at the floor, shoulders hunched. Fëanor really should have felt bad - Nelyafinwë _was_ always such a nervous boy - but he was too angry. "I'm sorry, father," he muttered. "I want to look my best, always. For you. For the crown."

Yes, Nelyafinwë was a nervous person, but he knew exactly what to say and when to say it. Feanor nodded his approval and took a deep breath. "Good answer. Now go."


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The festival happens! 
> 
> F in the chat for Fingon oof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning of slight noncon and drug use

In the mingling morning light before the world opened up and the festival began, Findekáno chucked pebbled at Nelyafinw ë’s window. It is not what had woken him; he’d already been awake and dressing, fretting over what color flowers to wear in his hair and with the elaborate robes. The  _ tap tap _ of pebbles against his window only woke him from his thoughts, and so he turned and ran to open the window. 

“Fin,” he whispered down, dodging a last pebble just as it would have smacked against his forehead. “Finde, what are you doing here?” 

“Oh, what am  _ I _ doing here?” he hissed, more bold and serious than he’d ever been. Nelyafinwë swallowed his nervousness, or tried, at least. “I heard you’re going to the festival with some girl.” 

Nelyafinwë sighed and twirled the yellow flower he held in his hand, putting up one finger for a pause while he dashed to his bedside table, pulling a rope from the top drawer. He fed it out the window, holding tight as Findekáno climbed and jumped into his room. 

“Finno,” he began, hands beginning to shake as he rolled the rope and slipped it back into his table, turning back. 

“Why have you lied to me?” Findekáno cut off, not allowing him a breath. He was already dressed and ready for the festival, and the air left Nelyafinwë’s lungs as he looked him up and down. Blue robes, of course, bordered in gold silk and patterned with silver and yellow flowers. His hair was woven with gold, as always, but it was more elaborate than ever this time, half of it braided into a bun and the rest coiled down his chest, jingling with chimes and bells. 

“Fin,” Nelyafinwë breathed. “I had not intended for this to happen.” 

“Oh, you haven’t?” Findekáno chewed his lip and stepped further into the room, the drapes at the window billowing around him like clouds. Though he did not face the Trees his eyes glowed with their light, gold and silver and shining. “You lied to me. Why did you lie to me, Maitimo?” 

“I had not meant to!” Nelyafinwë could feel the heat rising in his face and turned away, grabbing the yellow flower back off his bedside table and walking to the mirror on the other side of the room. “I had to make a compromise with my father. I was trying to be  _ able _ to attend the festival with you, Finno, I promise.” 

“Why should I trust your promises?” Findekáno hissed, but it sounded overwhelmingly childish. 

Nelyafinwë wove the flower into his hair, then another and another after that, braiding his hair all the way down. “Do you think I would intentionally lie to you?” He tied it at the end with a strip of leather and turned back to his cousin. “You know my father would not allow me to be seen so publicly with you.” 

Findekáno would not take his eyes off him. The pause hung in the air until it became unbearable, and when that happened Findekáno went to him and took a string of red gems off Nelyafinwë’s dresser beside the mirror. He took his braid, gentle around the flowers, tied one end of the gems into his hair, and began to weave it in and around the braid. 

“I am sorry I shouted at you,” he muttered. “I know I shouldn’t expect so much. I just… I did not want to go with you to the festival as a little cousin anymore.” 

“You are an adult, Fin,” Nelyafinwë huffed. “I do not think of you as little.” 

“I know you do,” he shot back. “Because you treat me like the baby twins.” 

“I do not!” Nelyafinwë frowned as Findekáno ignored him and tied off the string of gems. “I do not, Finno, you are my greatest friend.” 

Findekáno stepped back and paused again. “Then why do you ruffle my hair and call me so many nicknames? And speak to me like I’m stupid, like I wouldn’t understand your meetings and royal business?” 

He didn’t do that, did he? Nelyafinwë looked down at his feet and forced his foot to stop tapping, his father didn’t like when he did that, and knew that Findekáno was right. “Habit. It’s habit, I do it to everyone. Everyone’s younger than me.” 

“Well,” Findekáno breathed, making a noise that could’ve been a laugh, weak as it was. “Can we not act as friends to each other?” 

Nelyafinwë smiled back and took his hand as it left his hair. “I would like that very much.” 

“I’m still mad at you,” Findekáno clarified, eyebrows raising. 

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Nelyafinwë’s smile didn’t wane. 

It was at that moment Fëanor’s voice could be heard screaming down the hall. 

The midsummer festival was a resounding success. At least, in everyone else's eyes.

Nelyafinwë was having trouble enjoying himself when he was constantly being hounded with commoners' attention and being yanked around by Cánien. She was a kind woman, but she was completely overbearing and  _ very _ bold - her name served her well.

"Come now, Beautiful," She cooed, holding his arm with both of her delicate, heavily jeweled hands. She wouldn't stop calling him that. Beautiful. Nelyafinwë had remembered very quickly why he hadn't talked to her after she came over for supper. "Let's away, hide behind the piers,  _ talk _ ..."

"Cánien, please." Nelyafinwë pleaded, voice dropping low so no one else heard. Findekáno watched him from behind a tower of particularly large flowers. His eyes bore into him. "I have things to attend to. Do not be so brash..."

"Oh, come  _ on _ !" She raised her voice up high, making Nelyafinwë's blood run cold and all his insides clench with anxiety. Passersby looked their way as they walked past. "We've been sitting here with your family for ages, there's no reason you can't go off on your own for a bit!"

That was true. In fact, Nelyafinwë usually  _ did _ go off on his own. But this time, he didn't think he wanted to leave the area. "My father gave me this responsibility, Cánien, I have to attend to the people. This has to go smoothly."

"You're so selfish!" Cánien rose to her feet, her  _ unusually _ short chiton falling just at her knees. "You're just scared of intimacy!"

Nelyafinwë thought he'd die right then and there. "Cánien," Carefully, ever-so-carefully, he rose to his feet beside her. He wished he weren't so tall; he attracted even more attention just by standing. "I invited you here to spend time with you. Please, will you tell me more of your home by the sea?"

He was hoping that'd prompt her to sit and calm herself and launch into another detailed story of her vacations, but she was already too worked up. She turned and crossed her arms. Findekáno took a long drink of whatever alcohol he'd managed to grab and made eye contact with Nelyafinwë. Everything in that look told him to run. To let her go. But then Nelyafinwë saw the reflection of his father in the gold plates of a nearby vendor, and his stomach dropped. Lord, was he shaking? Why was he shaking?

"I don't want to talk to you." She grumbled. Nelyafinwë swallowed, steeled himself up, and took her hand in his.

"Let's go walk to the pier." He leaned his head over her shoulder, letting his voice go deep. He knew the effect it had on his admirers - he may be one to keep others distant, but he wasn't  _ blind _ . "Cánien. Let's go to the pier."

She turned her head up to him, eyes bright and sparkling and entirely lost in his. One of the daisies in her hair fell to the wooden platform beneath them. "Okay."

Nelyafinwë took her arm and stepped off the platform, heart beating as though it were going to leap from his chest, and started down the long street down to the diamond beaches below. He could feel, through the closeness between them, Cánien's heart beating fast, too. Findekáno's eyes were on the ground.

"What took you so long?" Makalaurë came running up to them from the side, his current and long-term interest tucked under his arm. Fëaranya was always very intimidating to Nelyafinwë, but she and Makalaurë worked perfectly together, somehow. "You've been hiding out with father for nearly the whole day."

Nelyafinwë answered before Cánien could. "I thought we'd take a walk. What have you been up to?"

Makalaurë walked with them, serenely, but Fëaranya twittered around, looking at every passing vendor and still managing to answer before Makalaurë. "We've been exploring this beautiful festival you've put together, Nelyafinwë. You've really outdone yourself."

"Well thank you." Nelyafinwë smiled in earnest. That was a breath of fresh air. "I've worked hard to create something everyone would like. You love cheesecake, do you not? Have you seen the vendor-"

"I've been there twice already!" Her head shot over to look Nelyafinwë in the eyes, smile wide. "If Káno allows me to go back a third I may never fit into this robe again!"

Makalaurë snorted, receiving a smack from Fëaranya, but Nelyafinwë bit back his own laugh. Well, at least he was making  _ someone _ happy. Cánien, on the other hand, didn't seem to like the others at all. Fortunately, Fëaranya didn't see — Nelyafinwë couldn't  _ imagine _ what she'd do - but Makalaurë did.

"We'll leave you two to talk," he said, sending Nelyafinwë a sympathetic smile. He knew his dilemma and seemed to genuinely feel bad. Not as though he could do anything, though. "Come now, Ran. There are vendors other than those who sell cheesecake. Did you see the arm cuffs back there?"

That was all Fëaranya needed to yank away Makalaurë and leave Nelyafinwë and Cánien alone. The exact opposite of what Nelyafinwë wanted at the moment. Cánien, however, was more than pleased. She walked so close up against Nelyafinwë their arms were touching.

The beach was empty - everyone was up on the streets. That gave Cánien the chance to take Nelyafinwë's hand and pull him quickly under the pier, holding him close and standing on her toes. Nelyafinwë tried not to think of Findekáno and failed.

"Cánien-" He protested. She smirked and grabbed hold of the collar of his robes. "Cánien, we really shouldn't-"

"- _ Shouldn't _ ," She rasped, "Doesn't mean  _ won't _ . I need you, Beautiful."

Without another word, Cánien pressed her lips tightly against his. Nelyafinwë had gotten many unwanted kisses before, but never one so- needy. Intense. She held onto him like he was the only thing keeping her alive. Nelyafinwë wished so badly to pull away and go back to the festival, even to leave her behind, but he couldn't possibly take a chance in ruining his event. Everything had gone so well thus far.

"Mm," Cánien moaned against him and rolled her hips up — which is exactly what caused Nelyafinwë to pull away.

"Cán- Cánien, please." He held her shoulders to avoid another attack. "We cannot- not here, not now." That was a good enough excuse — not very troublesome. Supposedly.

She chewed her lip, eyes still just as devious as before, and dug around in her pocket for a moment. She brought out a small baggie, not bigger than the size of her palm. But Nelyafinwë knew what that was. He'd seen it exchanged on the streets before.

"No." Nelyafinwë raised both hands and shook his head. "This is too far, Cánien."

She was already unwrapping the bag; inside were two small green tablets, a plant originating from the Gardens of Vána, if memory served. Cánien handed him one and raised her own, smirk on her lips.

"Come on, Beautiful," she prodded. "You know  _ everyone _ uses these, right? It's seriously not all the talk you've heard."

"I said no." Nelyafinwë held up the tablet and looked it over. Entirely plain save one carved-in leaf shape on one of the sides.

"Oh, come on." Cánien rolled her head back, groaning. "I know you need to relax a bit. This'll help you do that."

All things considered, she wasn't  _ wrong _ . But this drug was still... well, a drug. And Nelyafinwë certainly didn't want to be caught using such a thing.

"No one will even know." Cánien rolled her eyes, reading him like a book. "It's not one of the noticeable ones. It'll just loosen you up a little. Make you worry less. Lords know you need that."

Nelyafinwë looked down at the tablet again. Cánien ate hers quickly, in one bite, staring down Nelyafinwë all the while. He didn't know what to do. He knew he shouldn't, he really did - but he'd been so stressed all day, all  _ week _ and all he wanted was to relax.

Before he could make his final decision, Cánien thrust herself forward, shoved the tablet into his mouth, and clasped her hands over his mouth. Nelyafinwë chewed and swallowed without really even knowing he was doing so.

The effects were instantaneous. The edges of Nelyafinwë's vision softened, all noise pulsed in and out like heartbeats — or was that just his own? — and, more importantly, he didn't seem to really notice when Cánien held his cheeks and smashed her lips against his.

It was easier, sadly, to picture Findekáno. As much as Nelyafinwë didn't want to, for Eru's sake, he wasn't even a woman, it kept his mind off the fact that he wasn't the least bit attracted to the person in front of him. When Cánien rolled her hips up and slid a hand into his robe, his thoughts were of a smaller, darker-haired individual.

He couldn't say how long this went on. The drug must have distorted time, too, because before he knew it, they were both undressed and the sun rested just over the water's surface.

"Oh, Eru," Cánien let her hands grip Nelyafinwë's hair tightly and pull. He hissed. "Oh, oh- please, Beautiful, just- yes..."

Nelyafinwë didn't know what he was doing, but he was glad he stopped there. Or rather, they were stopped there. Voices were echoing in the distance, the pulsing becoming louder and the voices familiar.

"Fuck," Nelyafinwë said, stupidly. Cánien was quicker to act. She threw on her robe and fixed up her hair to look somewhat presentable while Nelyafinwë scrabbled around in the sand to grip his own robes.

"Useless," Cánien muttered, then proceeded to help him back into clothes. "Must I do everything for you?"

"Mm," Nelyafinwë grunted and stood up straight again. Or at least, he thought it was straight. But everything was a bit tipped and very fuzzy. Nevertheless, he allowed Cánien to push him out into the beach, out from under the pier, and into the disappearing sunlight.

"Brothers!" Nelyafinwë spread his arms wide as soon as Makalaurë and Tyelkormo appeared over the hill. Cánien set a hand to her head and turned away, already exhausted. "Brothers, how are you?"

The two of them paused, exchanged glances, and ran down the hill quickly to Nelyafinwë's side.

"I'll take my leave," Cánien cut them off before they could say anything, sliding a hand through Nelyafinwë's hair and stomping off. Nelyafinwë watched her go with a smile.

"Good riddance, am I right?" He gestured wildly to her and rolled his head back towards his brothers.

"Are you-" Tyelko sniffed the air and frowned. "You aren't drunk, are you?"

"Me? Drunk? Psh," Nelyafinwë scoffed and waved his hand dismissively. "I've barely had anything to drink today."

Makalaurë studied him then, eyes boring into every feature. "Heavens. You're high, Russo, what have you had?"

But Nelyafinwë was already distracted and onto the next thing. His head had rolled up to the clouds gracing the faded Tree-lit sky and turned his head around to make sense of them. Everything was so blurry. "That one looks a bit like a dog, doesn't it?"

Makalaurë looked to Tyelko, who'd donned a very dangerous smile. "We have to get him home without father noticing."

"What?" Tyelko stared incredulously and pointed to Nelyafinwë. " _ That _ is hilarious! Can't you see father and his  _ reaction _ to it? Incredible!"

"And that one's a big spoon." Nelyafinwë leaned back more to point at one clump of clouds in particular. He did nothing but cause himself to fall backward and somehow get caught by Makalaurë before he could collapse completely. Tyelko had to turn away because he was laughing so hard.

"Tyelkormo!" Makalaurë hissed lowly and struggled to set his giant of a brother on his feet. "This isn't funny. Father's going to blame us, you know. Probably you — you're the troublemaker. He'll say you ruined Russo, and you're ruining his legacy and all that nonsense."

That seemed to sober up Tyelko. He grasped Nelyafinwë by the shoulders and tried leading him forward, gently.

"Where're we goin'?" Nelyafinwë broke his eyes away from the sky and smiled down at Tyelko.

"Getting you home, you giant buffoon." He grumbled. Makalaurë took Nelyafinwë's other arm and the three of them took a sharp turn onto a small, quiet street.

"Home? I don't want to go home!" Nelyafinwë shouted, destroying any silence the street had once had. "I never got to enjoy the festival!  _ My _ festival! Stupid Cánien was keeping me away from it  _ all day _ -"

"Shush!" Makalaurë whispered in Nelyafinwë's direction. "Lords, be quiet. You're going to wake up the whole city."

"Good!" He screamed. "They can enjoy the festival for longer!"

"The festival is over, Rus," Tyelko murmured. Murmured? It was the quietest Nelyafinwë'd ever heard him. "It's time to go home."

"I don't  _ want  _ to!" Nelyafinwë broke free of his brother's grasp and ran ahead, throwing his arms wide and spinning around. "This was a day for  _ me _ to relax a little! I didn't even get to spend it with Finde as I'd promised him!"

Makalaurë was quick to wrangle his brother into his grasp again. "Russo, I know you're excited, and high, probably, but this is  _ not _ the time for any of that. Get home and go to sleep and you can apologize to cousin Findekáno in the morning."

They barely made it another hundred steps before Nelyafinwë's loud groaning became coherent complaining, and another hundred steps he was actively trying to convince his brothers to let him stay out later. Makalaurë suspected the street would be woken up by now, if not all of them than most of them, due to all the raucousness. He wished they had more help shutting up Nelyafinwë before someone called the authorities, or worse — Fëanor himself, to grab his eldest and escort him home. In Makalaurë's mind, that was the worst, _worst-_ case scenario.

Fortunately — or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it — a figure appeared to their left, out of an alleyway. Makalaurë was almost suspecting a thief and Tyelkormo was fully ready to fight a thief. But to their collective surprise, it was their uncle Ñolofinwë. And he didn't look very happy.

"Ah, uncle." Makalaurë, more of a diplomat than Tyelkormo and soberer than Nelyafinwë, turned towards Ñolofinwë. "Thank the Lords you're here. Would you mind lending us a hand?"

Ñolofinwë stepped closer, frowning. Whether that was at the situation before him or because he was angry at them was unclear. "What's going on here?"

Nelyafinwë, having then heard his uncle's voice, lifted his previously hung head and smiled widely in Ñolofinwë's direction. "Uncle! Oh, Ñolo, maybe  _ you _ can try and convince these brothers of mine to let me stay out later! I'm feeling perfectly fine and not fuzzy at all."

Ñolofinwë narrowed his eyes at Tyelkormo. "What'd you give him?"

Tyelko gasped offendedly and grasped his heart. "I didn't give him anything! He was like this when we found him!"

"Yes, uncle, please believe us," Makalaurë added in. "We don't know what happened. We're just trying to get him home as quickly and, though this failed,  _ quietly _ as possible."

"I'm being quiet!" Nelyafinwë roared.

"Alright," Ñolofinwë said, stepping closer to them and placing a thick hand on Nelyafinwë's shoulder. "I came to scold Russandol for being so rude to my son, but... this is a little more important."

To all their surprise, again, Ñolofinwë leaned over and scooped up Nelyafinwë in one swift motion, tangled legs and all. Nelyafinwë let out a childish and far too loud giggle but ultimately allowed himself to be held. Thank the Lords for that.

Now having Ñolofinwë's help, the four of them made their way up the side streets leading to the royal castle. No doubt everyone was asleep; by the time the castle was in eye view, it had to be well past midnight. Nelyafinwë hadn't ceased his talking. The three of them had never heard him speak so much — usually, he was reserved and quiet and only speaking when he had to address someone or say something diplomatic. A true trained politician, he was. Makalaurë, though, thought it was strange he was so familiar with their half-uncle. They  _ had _ been closer when there weren’t so many brothers and cousins, and although they had tried to always be friendly to each other it was harder as of late. Makalaurë had thought that was because of Findekáno and wanting to be close to him, for a long while. Clearly, though, Nelyafinwë and Ñolofinwë had been good friends.

"And then- and then the smith said he couldn't get it all done by today, so I decided to make half of them myself." Nelyafinwë was telling some long-winded story about the metalwork from the festival, but Makalaurë hadn't been paying much attention. "My hands are still raw from it. See? The knuckle on my thumb is-"

"Shh,  _ shh _ , Russo," Ñolofinwë murmured, heaving Nelyafinw ë upwards to adjust his grip. "We're home, you see? You must be quiet now, or else Fëanor will hear us. I don't want to face his wrath right now and I don't think you do, either."

"I very much don't," Nelyafinwë admitted. "But can't I not go in yet? I want to stay out and talk all night."

"I know." Ñolofinwë sighed, coming upon the door and looking to Makalaurë or Tyelkormo to open it. Tyelko was closer and quietly swung the wooden door into the foyer open. Above them was all of the seven sons' quarters, all congregating into a common area but having more than enough privacy. It was a bit disconnected from where Fëanor and Nerdanel's rooms were, so that was another bit of hope for them.

When they stepped into the foyer, however, there was chatting and talking upstairs. Ñolofinwë instinctively crouched down a bit, but Tyelkormo ignored them and walked right up the stairs to their right, into the common room above.

"Hey, what's up?" His voice came echoing back.

Pityo’s tiny voice answered. "Playing cards. Wanna join?"

Then Curvo, "Where're Russo and Káno?"

Nelyafinwë couldn't contain himself then. He wriggled in Ñolofinwë's arms and raised his own. "Down here!"

There was a pause, mixed emotions hanging in the air. Then all five remaining brothers peered over the ledge overlooking the foyer.

"Hey, uncle." Moryo waved. "Uh... Is Russo, like, okay?"

"I'm feeling better than ever!" Nelyafinwë shouted, much too loud now that they were inside.

Makalaurë clasped a hand over his brother's mouth and smiled through the anxiety that shout just gave him. "He's, um, not really. In the right mind. We don't know what happened. Help?"

Morinfinwë launched himself over the ledge and landed almost silently beside him, prodding Nelyafinwë to look at him and looking into his eyes. He was young, still, but was closer with Nelyafinw ë than with most of the rest.  "Damn. Who was he with? Because either he did something completely out of character and took that damn weed that's going around, or someone drugged him."

Makalaurë paled. "He was with Cánien all day."

Ñolofinwë's eyes narrowed, suddenly very threatening, and turned and marched up the stairs. "I'm going to kill that girl!"

Tyelko broke into laughter, always one to break into laughter at inappropriate times, and the rest of the brothers followed closely behind Ñolofinwë. Their uncle made a beeline for Nelyafinwë's room, entered without a pause, and deposited Nelyafinwë on his bed. He looked to be very much on a mission, but Makalaurë, Moryo, and Curvo held him back.

"Uncle! Uncle! It's alright, we'll deal with that tomorrow!" Makalaurë blocked the doorway and effectively stopped Ñolofinwë from leaving. "We have to deal with her tomorrow. For now..."

The seven of them turned their heads to look at Nelyafinwë on the bed. He was already passed out cold and snoring.

"He looks fine." Ñolofinwë's voice had deepened considerably. "Let me through."

Their uncle made another move to stomp out, to do whatever he intended to do to Cánien, but Makalaurë and the Moryo stepped into his path again.

"Káno?" Over by the bed, the twins stared over Nelyafinwë and turned their little heads up towards Makalaurë. "Is brother going to be okay?"

That melted Ñolofinwë's resolve enough for him to back down and turn to face the twins. Makalaurë, seeing his uncle wouldn't leave, went to the bedside to lift up both the twins on his hips.

"Russo is going to be perfectly fine." Makalaurë smiled at both of them and tried to tune out the loud snoring in front of them. "He's just very sleepy. Now, for the rest of you-" Makalaurë turned his attention to Curvo and Moryo, who stood sheepishly off to the side.

"We were waiting for you," Curvo said.

Makalaurë frowned. "Moryo, you were next in line to be in charge. Why were you still up playing cards?"

Moryo clearly didn't want to answer, but then Nelyafinwë snorted and shifted in bed and he seemed to wake up, if only a little. "We're scared to go to bed without you and Russo home. The twins asked to stay up until you got here."

Makalaurë looked down at the twins. "Is that true?"

Two heads nodded. Makalaurë sighed and rubbed his forehead, then set down the twins and tapped them forward.

"We're home now," he cooed, "off to bed with you. All of you," He added, for good measure. Ñolofinwë stood off to the side from the doorway to let the five younger siblings walk through, heads hanging and yawning. Amrod stopped, last, to look up at his uncle. Ñolofinwë shivered. Those brown eyes were always too intuitive.

"You should go home too, uncle." Makalaurë crossed his arms. "This is not your problem to deal with."

Ñolofinwë knew he was right. It's not like he didn't want to stay and make sure his nephew was alright, because he  _ did _ , but he feared what his half-brother might do if he found him in his house. Something terrible, probably. "Fine then. Find me tomorrow and tell me he's alright or I'll come back in person."

Makalaurë nodded. "Yes, uncle. Goodnight."

Ñolofinwë was gone the next moment. Makalaurë was left in the stillness of his brother's room, listening to the rest of their brothers get ready for bed noisily. But there really was nothing else to be done that night, so Makalaurë dragged the more comfy chair from the wall to the side of the bed and settled in. This would all be fixed in the morning. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the festival! Fëanor has a surprise that may or may not fuck up all of their lives forever ha

It was not all fixed in the morning.

Before Makalaurë could even wake on his own, and he usually woke very early, there was banging on all of their doors. No one had to guess what it was; the voice that followed was distinct.

"Up! Everyone up, there is work to be done today!"

Makalaurë rubbed at his eyes and wondered why his father was so cruel, then got to his feet to stretch. But as his sight faded in, and he realized where he was, he turned down quickly to Nelyafinwë and met his bleary, waking eyes. There was something scary about that, seeing him so out of it, and even scarier when panic shifted in his eyes and he tumbled out of bed, scrambling to his bathroom and wretched into the toilet.

"Russo?" Makalaurë swallowed and stepped into the bathroom behind him, kneeling beside the toilet and setting a hand on his back. "You okay?"

When he could take a breath, he laid his head on the seat and closed his eyes. "What the fuck happened last night?"

"Well," Makalaurë laughed, meaning not to but remembering his state, "you got pretty fucking high. And woke up the whole neighborhood, so we got Ñolofinwë to carry you back. You passed out the moment we threw you in bed."

Nelyafinwë opened his mouth to say something, but he turned over again and threw up yet more of that drug. Makalaurë held his shoulders and brushed his hair back, tying it at the nape of his neck. For a moment, they didn't move, Makalaurë comforting his brother as he vomited up everything in his body. That is, until the door thudded with the heavy hand of their father.

"Nelyafinwë! Be at the gardens by midday, don't even  _ think _ about forgetting!"

Makalaurë supposed that was kind of the point of forgetting, but he wasn't about to argue with Fëanor's logic. Nelyafinwë lifted his head, wiped his mouth on his wrist, and pulled the handle to flush the toilet. He was going to get to his feet, the fool.

"Hey, hey," Makalaurë cooed, holding his arm. "Rest."

"I have to, you- heard father." Nelyafinwë grasped his brother's arm back and used it to help himself stand. His feet were unsteady and he swayed the moment he took a step. "I have to... go to the garden..."

"No, no-no." Makalaurë stepped in front of him and held his arm again. "You're going to stay here and rest."

"No." Nelyafinwë's resolve was there. He took a step, then let go of Makalaurë and took another. Everything was spinning. His knees buckled and he collapsed in the doorway to his bedroom, trying to catch himself with the doorframe and instead banging his shoulder on it.

"Russo!" Makalaurë fell to his side and lifted him up onto his lap, brushing loose strands of hair away from his face. His eyes looked so foggy, dull and not really there, and his skin was sickly pale. Makalaurë looped his arms under his brother's armpits and lifted him, dragging him to the side of the bed and rolling him in.

"Please don't-" Nelyafinwë grabbed the hand before it could move away and tried to focus his eyes. "Please don't tell father. Please. Help me get- get to the gardens."

"You're ill, Russo," Makalaurë pointed out. "I'm calling on a healer and you're going to stay in bed."

"No!" Nelyafinwë shot up in bed as his brother went to the door, already intending to leave. Nelyafinwë thought he'd never felt so sick in his life, but he wasn't about to let  _ anyone _ know that. "Káno, you  _ can't _ \- father will- I have to go!" Desperate, he peeled the blankets back and brushed sweat-wet hair from his face. Makalaurë rushed back to set him down but Nelyafinwë had made his mind up. "I'll see a healer tonight."

"You're going to rest," Makalaurë shot back. They were frustrated, both sides, trying to stop the other from doing anything. Nelyafinwë slipped from his grasp and stumbled to his bureau, setting his hands on it firm and opening the drawers with trembling fingers. Makalaurë wanted to scream. Why did their father have to frighten them so much? He swore, sometimes, that Nelyafinwë feared their father more than Eru Himself, more than the rest of their brothers combined.

It was shocking, really, that Nelyafinwë was able to dress himself. His hair was still a mess, strewn with broken petals of yellow flowers and hidden, tangled red jewels, but he just took up his brush and got it all out that way. He didn't pick up the mess — Makalaurë thought he'd fall over if he bent down like that — and instead stumbled to his mirror and rubbed at the eyeliner that'd smudged greatly already. When he turned back to face Makalaurë, there were tears in his eyes.

"Please help," he begged. His voice was pitiful, small and terrified. Makalaurë had never heard his voice like that; it sent ice down his spine. "Please. I- I can't get it off, father-"

Makalaurë only shushed him and walked to where he stood, swaying, and held him by the shoulders while he rubbed at the liner under his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Nelyafinwë whispered. "I'm sorry I'm like this."

"Like what?" Makalaurë cooed.

"A mess." He cringed as Makalaure's finger almost poked him in the eye. "A disappointment."

"Why do you say that, Russo?" Makalaurë didn't want to encourage it, but he was set off, hearing that. "That's not true."

"Yes, it is." Nelyafinwë pulled his head away, stepping back and leaning against the wall. "Fin always asks me to the festivals, I should have- should have just told father I was going with him. I'm a coward. And I liar, and I abandoned Fin-"

"Findekáno will not be offended if you tell him what happened." Makalaurë brought him back up to stand, grabbing a pair of sandals from the floor and crouching down to help Nelyafinwë put them on. "No one can argue with father's will. Findekáno will understand that, Russo, you must communicate it."

On cue, a pebble  _ pik _ -ed against Nelyafinwë's back window. Makalaurë smirked and raised his eyebrows at Nelyafinwë, who just flushed brighter red when another pebble hit the window.

"I'll get it." Makalaurë nodded at his brother and stepped to the window quickly, before Nelyafinwë could make a move to. It was no surprise to Makalaurë, seeing Findekáno standing angry under his window.

"Ropes in..." Nelyafinwë cleared his throat. "Ropes in the bottom drawer."

Makalaurë had to stifle a laugh as he opened the bottom drawer in his bedside table and brought out the rope. All the brothers had some secret form of rebelling against Fëanor, and this was Nelyafinwë's way.

Makalaurë opened the window and fed the rope out it until he could feel a tug, prompting Makalaurë to pull back and reel Findekáno in. My the time a dark-skinned hand grasped the windowsill to pull himself in, Nelyafinwë had moved from the wall to the bureau, not wanting to go further and fall.

"Makalaurë?" Findekáno narrowed his eyes, set a sandaled foot on the sill, and vaulted inside. "Where's- where- Maitimo!" He'd caught sight of Nelyafinwë and ran to him, grasping his arms and shaking him, not noticing how unfocused his eyes were and how trembly he already was. "My father told me you were high last night, but I don't believe it, it's an excuse, I-"

"Finde," Makalaurë said, walking over to them and crossing his arms. He pulled Findekáno's arms away and held Nelyafinwë up without his grasp on the bureau — he swayed. "It's not a damn excuse, he's having withdrawals."

Findekáno's face dropped, eyes wide. "I- you-  _ what?" _

"It was that girl," Makalaurë went on. "Cánien. She drugged him."

_ "WHAT?" _ Findekáno roared, and Makalaurë and Nelyafinwë both had to crowd him and shush him. "We have to tell someone! This is- this is a  _ crime, _ Maitimo, you're a Royal Prince and-"

"Please don't," Nelyafinwë pleaded. There were frustrated tears in his eyes again. "Please don't. I can't have father knowing. He can't know. Please, Finde."

Findekáno paused, lips pressed tight together. He wasn't going to drop it just yet — there was the same boiling anger his father had had last night — but he loved Nelyafinwë too much to go directly against what he said. "Fine. Let's get you fixed up then."

Findekáno moved like a whirlwind around them, fixing his hair up, wiping off all his makeup and applying a little more to make him look less haggard, and walking him all the way to the door. A good thing, too, considering how Fëanor came back around to knock on their doors. He paused for a moment outside Nelyafinwë's, lowering his voice to not be  _ so _ growly when he told him to meet him at the gardens. Nelyafinwë, meanwhile, thanked Findekáno sincerely, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, and gave Makalaurë a firm pat on the back.

"You won't be able to get there on your own," Makalaurë pleaded, trying to go after him.

"Watch me," Nelyafinwë hissed back. "I have to. I'll see you both after lunch, alright?"

He left, just like that, without another glance back. Makalaurë and Findekáno hid behind the door as he opened it and slipped through, shakily, stumbling down the long hall. Makalaurë cringed as he listened to him making his way down the stairs — their piece of the home really was quiet, in this time of the morning — but he got to the bottom, not falling once, and he was safe.

Nelyafinwë would admit, also, that he had no idea how he was able to make his way up the hill and round the bend to the gardens. It was somewhat of a long walk, and the sun was in his eyes the whole way. He couldn't see through the fogginess of his vision, but the image of his father waiting at the gardens, disappointed, kept him going on, blind. He thought he would rather take an arrow to the heart than disappoint his father, disappoint anyone. To fail his people…

But he did make it to the gardens, somehow, and when he got there he realized this was no small meeting. All his grandfather's and father's advisors were there, plus many of those people's captains, and Nelyafinwë could feel his heart pick up as he straightened his back and kept his head up. If he couldn't see straight he could at least  _ act _ like everything was fine.

"Ah, Russandol!" Finwë called through the crowd. He always saw Nelyafinwë no matter where he was, no matter how crowded it was. The advisors and captains parted for the High King but continued their murmuring and sideways glances. It wasn't all at Nelyafinwë, he realized gratefully, and as Finwë came upon him and reached for a hand Nelyafinwë could feel the world sway.

"Well met, grandfather." Nelyafinwë took his hand, bowing his head and trying to keep the nausea in his stomach.

"Not so formal, Russo, please." Finwë shook his head as if he'd just said something very funny and reached up to fix a piece of golden-red hair back behind Nelyafinwë's ear. His grandfather had been the one to start that name for him, Russo. He'd always loved his hair, he told him so every chance he got. "You don't look very well, Russo, are you ill?"

"No, no, grandfather." Nelyafinwë shook his head and slid a hand through his hair. Findekáno had done a good job fixing it. "I am fine. What is the occasion here?"

Finwë smirked in the grandfatherly way he did, patting Nelyafinwë's shoulder and nearly toppling him completely. "Your father has an announcement," he whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. "It's quite the announcement, too. You're lucky to be here — the only one of his sons he trusted to take this seriously."

Take this seriously? What was happening? "Grandfather, what-"

Fëanor burst open the doors of the meeting room and the world was cut silent. The air was still, not even the birds moving, and the crowd instantly stepped back into a more orderly half-circle around the Eldest Prince. Someone shut the doors to the gardens.

"My men," Fëanor started, and Nelyafinwë could see him above heads, dressed as he would at a royal event. There was a fully-armored captain behind him, holding a gilded metal box. "Advisors, captains, High King my father," he went on, always one to keep an audience on edge, "I have created my crowning achievement. Day and night for months have I spent on these-  _ gems, _ and greater they are than our language, than my fine swords and jewelry. It will be the symbol of our valiant people, the objects of holiness others think to when referring to our House. I present to you," he breathed, a long, deep breath, "the Silmarils."

The captain came forward and Fëanor turned, unclasping and swinging open the lid of the box. It was as though the Trees had come to where they stood, as though Varda herself thrust light into their little garden. The Silmarils were Light. Nelyafinwë was sure he swayed seriously, then, and when he could open his eyes (it pierced even though closed eyelids) there were two captains holding him up by the arms, haloed by Light.

"Russo," Finwë called over him. There were spots flying around his vision, the nausea was rising in his throat and he had to clasp a hand over his mouth before he could vomit before his King and all the politicians of their House. "Russandol! Can you see me?"

Nelyafinwë was set down on the stone walkway of the garden while the rest of the people crowded Fëanor. He couldn't speak, he wouldn't, but he nodded towards where he could see a vague outline of his grandfather. Finwë took him by both arms and lifted him effortlessly, leading him away from the blinding Silmarils and through the garden walkway, behind rosebushes and white-bark trees. It was far enough away that the light no longer permeated every inch of his sight, but everything was still spinning and dizzying. Finwë set him down against the furthermost tree, facing away from everything.

"My boy," Finwë cooed, crouching beside him. His robes, all silk and so fine they settled like a red and gold breeze around him, brushed against Nelyafinwë's ankle. When Finwë placed a hand on his shoulder Nelyafinwë rolled himself away, throwing up into the edge of a rosebush to his left. There was hardly anything to come up, anymore, bile stinging his throat and his stomach still churning unbearably.

"Russandol!" Finwë cried, peering over and trying to lift him, but Nelyafinwë wouldn't turn, he couldn't face the King like this. He never should have come, he should have listened to Makalaurë and Finde. This was disappointment. He was a disappointment. "My boy, you're ill, I know you are, come here. Let me feel your temperature."

Nelyafinwë lifted his head just enough for his grandfather to press the back of his hand to his forehead. Finwë  _ tsk _ ed under his breath, pulling away and standing. There was a captain behind them, Nelyafinwë hadn't realized. His stomach sunk and he heaved up more bile.

"Get a doctor, quickly!" Finwë shouted, not having to say anything more. The captain scurried off, nothing but tapping footsteps on stone, and Finwë was back at his grandson's side in just a moment.

"I'm fine," Nelyafinwë squeaked.

"No, you very much are not." Finwë settled by his side and let his hand stay gentle on Nelyafinwë's knee. "This is not fine, Russandol. Come here, you're burning up."

"No." Nelyafinwë shook his head, still turned away. "I'll- I'm sick."

"Oh, come now." Finwë  _ tsk _ ed and forced Nelyafinwë up, cradling him awkwardly against his chest. He was too tall, too gangly. "I have five children and fifteen grandchildren, I am used to sickness and vomit and fevers."

Nelyafinwë could not argue with that, but he never quite settled in Finwë's arms. He was shivering all over and sweating, he couldn't stay still, everything was spinning. When the captain came back with a doctor, as well as a few other advisors and soldiers (and the crowd looking over), Nelyafinwë had to shut his eyes and pray to Eru he didn't embarrass himself more.

"What happened?" The doctor crouched down beside them and pressed the back of his hand to Nelyafinwë's forehead, too. "He has a high fever."

"I know." Finwë agreed. "He collapsed. He should be transported home."

"Mm." The doctor forced his eyes open and flashed some light into them, so Nelyafinwë groaned and tucked his head against his grandfather's chest. "Yes, he should. Men? The cart, you have it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." The doctor stood and turned and may have waved something, may have ordered the soldiers to do something, but Finwë was standing again and holding Nelyafinwë in his arms. It was a chore to move, so he stayed mostly limp, but that didn't seem to help his grandfather's worry. Worry? Why was he worried here? It was his failure that'd make him end up where he was, not the King's, he  _ shouldn't _ be worried.

"Hurry!" Finwë stepped after the doctor quickly. "He is losing consciousness!"

"I'm fine," Nelyafinwë puffed out, but it was hardly anything, he wouldn't be able to convince them he was fine. And he wasn't, he knew he wasn't.

"Father!" Fëanor had seen them, oh joy, and despite his need to keep the attention on his most recent achievement seeing his son being carried out after a doctor was something to catch his eye. "Father, what has happened?"

Nelyafinwë opened his eyes just a little, to see his father standing over him with severely lowered eyebrows. "I'm sorry," he squeaked out, trying not to cry, he'd already embarrassed himself thoroughly enough. "Father, I- I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

"Shh," Fëanor hissed. "What happened?"

"He collapsed." Finwë shook his head above him. "He collapsed and vomited, he has a fever."

"You're bringing him home." Fëanor saw the doctor behind them, the soldiers opening the gate and the closed cart in the road. "Aren't you?"

"I must examine him somewhere safer than a garden, your highness," the doctor stuck in.

"He will draw much attention," Fëanor mused, as though that was the most important thought at hand. It probably was, to him. "A royal cart, going through the streets, windows closed? No, that won't do."

"Curufinwë," Finwë huffed, "I love you very much, but do you see your son?"

Fëanor looked down at Nelyafinwë again, but he could tell his father wasn't thinking anything about his wellness. Fëanor turned back to the captain holding open the box of Light and back to the King. "I will take the Silmarils on my horse in front of him. I know you do not find appearances so important, Nelyafinwë, but you will later on."

That was the last word he wanted to be had. Fëanor walked past them and out the garden's gates, around the corner to where the men's horses were kept. Nelyafinwë closed his eyes; what else was there to see? His father riding through the streets with his great blinding Light, shouting self-praises and averting the public eye from his poor sick son? Nelyafinwë wanted to hide in his rooms forever. He never wanted anyone to see him again. What an embarrassment he was, to his people, to his House and his father and the King.

"Russo," Finwë cooed, setting him carefully inside the cart so dark with the windows closed Nelyafinwë could open his eyes without feeling bile in his throat. "We will meet you at home, alright?"

Fëanor had ridden ahead, and gather attention he did; no one would even  _ see _ Nelyafinwë. "Mmhm."

"Good." Finwë shut the door and the cart went black, only the trickle of Tree-light peering in past the curtains. Nelyafinwë couldn't stay awake, shutting his eyes and letting sleep pull him down, a sleep so deep he wouldn't wake even when they pulled him from the cart and set him in bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, comments, feedback if you have the time, please! Have a nice day!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter! Sorry y'all :( I'm uploading a longer one right after this though
> 
> Maedhros gets ratted out rip

There was shouting when he caught hold of consciousness again.

He didn't know if it was a dream, at first, because his brain was still going slow and sleepy. Everything was soft and fuzzy, but he guessed that was either the sleep still fading away or some kind of medicine they'd given him.

"-Can't believe this, he's really blaming me!" That was Tyelkormo's voice, he knew it was, so he creaked his eyes open a little more. The windows were thrown wide and candles were lit, but it was night considering how the curtains were drawn, blocking light. "Yell at  _ Russo, _ he's the one who went and did it!"

"No, don't yell at Russo, Lords, Tyelko." Makalaurë was closer to the bed, but it wasn't he who noticed that Nelyafinwë had woken. All his brothers were in the room, even the little Ambarussa in their pajamas, and in front of all of them was Fëanor and Nerdanel. Their mother sat on the edge of the bed, beside Nelyafinwë's feet, and had a much softer expression than their father.

"Oh, he'll get a scolding," Fëanor said, eyebrows raised. "But this is your fault too, boys. How could you have let this happen?"

"He's the oldest!" Tyelko roared. "He's supposed to be the role model or something! You've groomed him like some prize-winning dog his whole life, were we supposed to join in on that?"

"Tyelkormo." Nerdanel lowered her voice gently. "He's your brother, do not speak of him that way."

"Are you mad 'cause I'm pointing out the truth?" Tyelko raised his eyebrows at the same time, taking a step back and lifting his hands in mock surrender. "Then I'm  _ sorry, _ father, mother. I  _ am  _ sorry I'm the only one to have noticed how fucking nervous and jittery he is all the time. What the fuck did you expect? That he'd be perfect and proper his entire fucking life?"

"Just because he takes his role seriously," Fëanor growled, "doesn't mean you have the right to criticize him for it. Or would you like us to start cracking down on how many nights you come home drunk, thinking we don't notice?"

Tyelko leaned his head all the way back, so mad he couldn't even put it in words, and spun around the next second, going to the door. "Eat shit, Fëanor."

He slammed the door behind him, rattling the whole wall and knocking a small painting to his bureau. Fëanor's eyes flashed red and he made a move to go after him when the twins noticed Nelyafinwë watching them and screamed.

"Russo!" They shrieked, jumping onto the bed beside their mother and hopping up and down around Nelyafinwë. "Russo's awake!"

Nelyafinwë had almost managed a smile at the boys before he noticed his father's gaze turned on him. Ice swept all the way down his body and he shifted his eyes to stare down at his blanket, avoiding making any eye contact with his father.

"My boy," Nerdanel cooed, sliding down the edge of the bed to press the back of her hand to his forehead, but the fever had subsided, he felt fine.  _ Actually _ fine. "I was so worried about you. How do you feel?"

He felt like he was about to get a verbal beating. "Fine."

"Boys, go to bed." Fëanor gave every one of his brothers a  _ look _ and turned back to Nelyafinwë. The twins pouted but jumped off the bed, running from the room down the hall, giggling. Curvo shrugged and turned tail, but Makalaurë hung in the doorway and Moryo refused to leave yet, staring at Nelyafinwë sadly. Eru, he was such a disappointment, he  _ was _ the role model and he was a failure, he'd failed them all.

"Father?" Moryo whispered, soft-spoken only when he wasn't angry. "Is Russo going to be okay?"

"Yes." Fëanor did not look away from his stare on Nelyafinwë. "Go to bed, Moryo."

He did, but only reluctantly, and Makalaurë took him at the doorway. The moment it was shut behind him Nelyafinwë held his breath, waiting.

"Do you know what you've done?" Fëanor began, much quieter than he'd expected. "To this House? To our reputation?"

"I'm sorry." Nelyafinwë wanted to cry already, he couldn't stand it. Nerdanel took his hand, but it was a poor substitute for comfort. They both knew there was nothing to combat against Fëanor's anger.

"I've had to  _ convince  _ nearly every publisher in this city to keep quiet. That doctor has been fired — he spread the rumors. Your grandfather the High King is worried sick and wants to quarantine you. He doesn't believe it's drugs. You want to know what I think?" Fëanor took a step closer to the bed and Nelyafinwë could feel his eyes glaze over with tears.

"Yes, father," he managed.

"I think someone drugged you." Fëanor bent over, not caring about Nerdanel's place beside him. "It's that or you've disobeyed me more than you ever have before."

"It won't happen again," he tried, but he knew that wouldn't be enough. He couldn't have his father thinking someone drugged him, if he ever found out the truth he'd surely do something horrible to Cánien, he couldn't have that happen. He'd rather take the blame entirely, even if it meant punishment from his father, even if he disappointed his grandfather. "It was me. It was me, I did it, I'm sorry, it won't happen again, father-"

"You think that's enough to fix this?" Fëanor slammed his fist down on the bedside table and a leg cracked. Nelyafinwë yelped and his mother squeezed his hand. "Your brothers think you're some kind of deviant! Have you been going behind my back all this time, are you playing me for a fool?"

"No, father, this is the only time-"

"You're  _ lying!" _ he screamed, banging the table again, cracking the leg further. Nelyafinwë could feel panicked tears slip down his face but he couldn't move to wipe them away, he couldn't move a muscle in his body. "I know you fraternize with my half-brother, I know you sneak that amoral bastard Findekáno into this house, I know you think I'm  _ clueless  _ to what you do!"

Nelyafinwë couldn't even open his mouth.

"How much have you done that I don't even know about?" Fëanor leaned in towards him more, eyes glowing red, something horribly  _ off _ about him that Nelyafinwë saw only when he was irrationally mad like this. "Secret  _ meetings _ with women,  _ married _ women maybe, or  _ men- _ are you some kind of criminal and I know nothing about it? You know your brothers look up to you, what do you think they look up to now? Tyelkormo is lost, he's always been a disappointment, but the Ambarussa are mere children and Moryo loves you like another father. What do you think they're thinking of you?"

Nelyafinwë wasn't feeling any of the drug anymore, but his whole body was trembling so terribly he couldn't stay still if he tried. He had tried to keep the tears in, too, but it was too large a request for himself. He wept quietly, tears wetting his face. "I'm sorry," he said, but his voice didn't sound like it was truly there. He didn't know if he was truly there.

"Sorry isn't enough." Fëanor stood straight. That was it. That was all he had to say, he'd gotten it all out, so he turned, stomped to the door, and slammed it shut behind him.

The house had never felt so still. Even as Nerdanel wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight, even as she sobbed against his chest, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't move. Wouldn't it be better if he didn't at all? If he never left that room, if he stayed quiet and prim and proper as Fëanor wanted from him. It was better for everyone. Better for his brothers, better for their House and their reputation. It must be better for him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, suggestions please! Have a wonderful day :)


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hehe sorry these chapters are so short
> 
> This one's the corruption of Fëanor. There could be a lot to say here, but I didn't, so this is brief.

Valinor was darkening.

It didn't start as anything much, at first. It was whispers in the dark, doors slamming when no one was there, reflections of ghosts in mirrors. Fëanor was suspicious — he always was, he was the most paranoid person in Ëa — but his suspicions were well-placed this time. He spoke of Melkor's following him, of his minions greeting him on the street, each one of them with one eye on his Silmarils. Although he kept them close, at least three soldiers guarding them at all times, still he kept suspicion.

It was warranted.

Everyone knew there was danger in Melkor's release from prison, and yet the Valar allowed it, and kept their eyes, instead, on the actions of Fëanor and his House. Fëanor did his best work in fortifying his men, training his sons in sword-fighting, and keeping his father the King on his side. But Ñolofinwë did not trust him, as usual, and the rift between their family grew and grew.

Finwë called for a meeting to reconcile his sons' hatred for each other before it was too late. Curvo said it was a waste of time, and the children of Arafinwë said Aman would sooner fall to the rule of Melkor than see Fëanor's temper quelled, but Findekáno said he was willing to bridge the gap and he was the eldest of Ñolofinwë's. Nelyafinwë was the most willing to receive their created enemy, but that wasn't saying much considering how closely he followed his father, how ready he was to please.

Finwë's meeting was worthless. It sliced the gap wider, more than they could have thought — Fëanor came full in armor and threatened his brother's life, even after Ñolofinwë promised peace. Fëanor had already spoken against the Valar, and then he had threatened death upon his own kin, and the Valar could not ignore it.

"We are banished," Nelyafinwë had told Findekáno, when he was able to sneak him in much after everyone had gone to sleep. "For twelve years or more. We don't know. We can't stay."

"Father said you won't come back at all." Findekáno took both Nelyafinwë's hands and squeezed them tight. "And if you do, the Valar will not allow it. Something will happen. I know it."

Nelyafinwë shook his head. It was not worth worrying over at that moment. "Then we can unite our Houses, somehow. I pledge loyalty to  _ you, _ Finde."

"You are Eldest," Findekáno pointed out. "I will follow  _ you." _

Nelyafinwë shook his head again. It was too late to argue about anything, and he was leaving in the morning, anyhow. His two bags, one a chest for a servant to carry, another for clothes he will carry, sat dormant by his door. His rooms were stripped clean, oddly empty, devoid of the life he'd given it. Nelyafinwë brought Findekáno close and held him until the windows beyond his lit with candles, until the world began to move again. Findekáno climbed out the window and was gone.

The path to Formenos wasn't horribly long, but it was  _ long _ and everyone tired very quickly. Half the journey was done by the undead, it seemed, by a people with no minds, following Finwë and Fëanor at the front with their flag-bearers holding their House high. Formenos itself wasn't the comfiest of places, an old, ancient castle, but Nelyafinwë settled his brothers in. He never did quite settle. There was an uneasiness in his bones that told him it would be pointless. They would be moving again soon.

The Ambarussa had burst into his room, one night, unable to sleep and frightened. They were teenagers, technically no longer children, but as the youngest they had liberties. Nelyafinwë held up his covers so they could cling to him and petted their hair until they quieted.

"It's darkening," Telvo said. "The world. I'm scared."

"The dark is nothing to be afraid of," Nelyafinwë cooed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "It is simply a place we have not gone yet. Go to sleep now, boys."

They did, though reluctantly. Formenos  _ was _ darkening, everyone could feel it. Fëanor set three more soldiers to guard his gems. Nelyafinwë heard him talking to nothing, sometimes, hissing at air and pacing in the halls. The other brothers didn't notice; they were too busy trying to get their lives back, making trouble and being stuck-up Princes, even as banished as they were.

Then Melkor came to their doorstep. Nelyafinwë could hear from far down the hall, listening in with his brothers, but he held all of them back for risk of any of them getting hurt. It was a short visit — their father slammed the door of their House in the face of the most powerful and most wicked Valar.

"We're doomed," Makalaurë whispered, holding Nelyafinwë's arm tight. "He's doomed us."

Nothing happened, at first. It never happened immediately, always after a brief period of worry, because that was Aman and leisure was the only thing known. A Festival was being planned, a Festival of the Valar, and despite their disagreements, they invited Fëanor to attend. Finwë had told all of them that while his son was banished, he was too. Nelyafinwë thought it was idiotic of any of them to go. The Valar were averting their eyes from something, the world was balancing on the edge of disaster. But Fëanor went anyway, in everyday clothes, without jewelry or weapons, and the Valar allowed him back from Formenos.

"Something isn't right," Makalaurë had said again after their father was hours gone and Formenos had settled again. They stood inside the great hall, with the Silmarils in their iron prison just across the room. "You know it. You feel it."

Nelyafinwë nodded and brushed his hand across the polished mahogany of the dining table. It was dusty, grossly so, and he wiped it on Makalaurë's sleeve. "Father is going to do something terrible."

"I don't know," Makalaurë scowled and shook off the dust, crossing his arms instead and trying to meet Nelyafinwë's eyes. "Not yet."

It was at that moment that everything went dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, whatever you want! Thank y'all for reading


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RIP the Trees you will be missed
> 
> In this one Melkor steals the Silmarils like the bastard he is

It has never been so dark. Aman was lit, always, by the great Trees, but they had all heard stories of the Lamps before. Nelyafinwë hadn't stopped to think about how the Trees had somehow been darkened.

"Makalaurë, you're here!" He reached out and grasped Makalaurë's hand, and he took it, though shakily. "Where's Tyelkormo?"

"His rooms, I think, with Curvo." Makalaurë's voice trembled horribly, something that sent shocks down his spine. His naturally Song-woven voice was never shaky, never unsure.

"Good. Come on," Nelyafinwë whispered, one hand out in front to find the door and the other in Makalaurë's. He had to find their brothers, first. Surely their grandfather was doing the same, securing the castle.

It had never been so dark. Nelyafinwë felt his way down the hall and up the long, curving staircase, but he had never made measurements with his steps, he had never mapped out Formenos' rooms and floors. He had no reason to, why would he need to know that? He knew approximately where everything was, and he shouted his brother's names, anyhow. They would find him if he didn't find them first.

"Russo!" the Ambarussa called, hearing him first. A flame of light appeared in a doorway down the hall, the twins had lit a candle somehow, and it was the only source of light in the darkened world. "Russo!"

"Boys!" Nelyafinwë ran forward, spreading his arm and wrapping them in a hug, Makalaurë lingering behind them. "Where are the others, boys?"

The candle flickered around their faces, lighting up wide blue eyes, red light curling around freckled cheeks and grimaces. The twins said nothing, only pointed down the hall with a whimper. Two doors opened, Moryo with a candle of his own, Tyelko and Curvo with one light together.

"What's happened?" Tyelko stepped onto the red carpet in the hall, plush under their feet but oddly cold, everything was cold. "It couldn't have- the Trees, what's-"

"They're dead," Makalaurë said, from behind Nelyafinwë. "I can't hear anything from them anymore. The Song is broken, it's silent."

The great fortified doors down the stairs and the large front hall rattled, something massive hitting them. Nelyafinwë brought his brothers close together, a tight circle, and took Moryo's candle. Something was here, something had come, and Nelyafinwë would rather jump into battle than wait for him and his family to be killed.

"Káno," he whispered, turning to Makalaurë. "Go into your room, protect them. You all have swords, take them, just in case."

"Russo," Telvo whined. "Don't leave."

"I'll be back," Nelyafinwë promised, taking the candle, backing down the hall. "Keep them safe, Káno!"

The great front doors rattled, again, and without a pause Nelyafinwë ran after them, launching himself down the stairs before his brothers could speak again. He couldn't see any more than a step in front of him, in the strangling darkness, but he ran anyhow, round the corner and down the main hall. The dining hall, where the Silmarils —  _ light, the Silmarils, he should have gotten them first — _ was blown open, the doors singed on the floor. The soldiers were nowhere to be found, gone or fled or dead, Nelyafinwë didn't know. There was one captain, one of his grandfather's, that lay unconscious against the wall, but she was alive, only knocked out with a head wound.

"Sir!" Another soldier had come out of the dining hall, limping, sword raised. "Stay back, it's not safe!"

Safe? When had they been safe after the banishment and Melkor's appearance on their front step? "What happened here?"

"He came," the soldier hissed, in fear greater than it seemed he knew how to control. "He came, sir, he came for the Gems. Get back, get in here, it's not safe, sir, he'll kill you, sir, get  _ in here!" _

"Calm yourself," Nelyafinwë spat, though he could feel himself shaking too. Had Melkor returned already? Was it he who killed the Trees? "Where is my grandfather?"

The soldier shook his head, eyes blown wide against his candlelight, and backed into the dining hall. "It's not safe here, not safe..."

Nelyafinwë shook his head and turned back down the main hall, past the unconscious captain. He took her sword for himself, holding it out with his right hand, his dominant hand, his other holding the candle further out. He thought about calling out for the King, for a moment, calling for his grandfather, but if Melkor was still there it was his life on the line.

Nelyafinwë froze. Blood was splattered against the wall, so much more blood than he'd ever seen, soaking through gilded wallpaper, staining the dark wood floor, pooling there. He took another step, against his better judgment, and there was a foot, an unmoving foot, a silk-cotton slipper he knew well.

"Grandfather?" he called, voice echoing in the darkness, shaking so much he had to make an effort to stop his knees from giving out, taking a step again. There was a leg, gilded metal greaves, then so much more blood, and a broken breastplate, and a knife embedded in the center. Nelyafinwë didn't think he could speak again, call for anyone at all, because when he got to the top of the body it was his grandfather's face that met him, dry open eyes silver-blue against the candlelight, mouth open, blood staining his lips.

Nelyafinwë dropped the sword and the candle, but the light stayed lit, on its side. The blood glistened on the floor and soaked into his pants quickly, but he didn't care, he pressed a hand to his grandfather's face. He didn't move, he couldn't. His nose had been broken, and blood had been spat from his mouth, and his arms were outstretched above him, trying to go after his killer. His dagger was clasped in his hand, still, tightly. The knife in his chest was black-hilted and extremely well-made. Melkor's crest was laden in the handle.

"Sir," the soldier called again, from far behind him. "Is he gone?"

Nelyafinwë nodded. He couldn't lift his eyes from his grandfather, so he lowered his head down and set his forehead against his bloodied cheek, closing his eyes.

"Who's there with you?" the soldier asked. "Has someone- been killed?"

It was warily asked, as though he wasn't sure it could really happen. The front doors were blown open and smoking but it was dark beyond them, when Nelyafinwë turned his head to peer out. It was silent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos and whatever! Thanks for readin'


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of Finwë's death :( Fëanor ain't in a good headspace rip everyone's sanity from here lol
> 
> short as always sorry updating more at the same time get ready for spam

Nelyafinwë covered the body with a sheet and paced in the main hall. He had sent the remaining soldier up to tell his brothers it was safe, as well as the rest of the people in Formenos, and watched quietly over his grandfather's captain.

The candle had nearly burnt out when she woke. It was sudden, with a gasp and a sputtering, bloody cough, and sent Nelyafinwë nearly into a heart attack.

"Captain!" He called, approaching her, crouching down beside her. There was nothing wrong in her eyes, nothing inherently painful, though there was madness in her gaze and she grasped Nelyafinwë's arm tightly, instantly.

"The King." She searched behind him, but there wasn't much to see. "The High King."

"He-" Nelyafinwë tried, but he couldn't say it, his lips would not utter the words. He pointed, instead, to the covered body, just visible through the darkness, and the captain wailed and bent over.

"No, no no..." She shook her head, hands gripping her hair, turning back and forth to the body and the floor in front of her.

"My father," Nelyafinwë breathed, panting, he'd been panting for so long. "Where is he?"

The captain only shook her head more. There was no way she would be able to answer, so Nelyafinwë stood again, raising his head towards the soldier that had just entered. Behind him were all six brothers, just as close together, and about three or four soldiers around them.

"Russo," Makalaurë whispered. "Are you hurt?"

Hurt? Nelyafinwë shook his head, but Makalaurë just stepped out of the group and towards him, looking him over carefully. Oh. The blood.

"You-"

"Grandfather," Nelyafinwë cut off. "Is- it is-" He couldn't say he was dead, that'd he'd been murdered, he couldn't do it. "It's not my blood."

They peered down the hallway, for two of the sconces were being lit by the new soldiers with their candles. They saw the sheet covering the body, it was a thin sheet, it was obvious what it was.

"Russo-" Makalaurë keened, stepped closer, out of the group. "He hasn't- this-"

"Please don't come any closer," Nelyafinwë raised his hands and stepped back, towards the captain still whining. "Please."

But Makalaurë wouldn't stop, and as he passed by he slipped from Nelyafinwë's grasp. He must've heard the disruption in the Song, he knew it like no other, and as he reached to peel back the sheet Nelyafinwë lurched forward.

"Oh, please, Káno!" he wailed, going after him, falling to his side to take his hand from the sheet. Makalaurë wouldn't. He lifted it, and there was that face, eyes closed now but mouth stained with blood, congealed now, nose broken, pale as death.

"This isn't-" Makalaurë's head shot up to Nelyafinwë's, maddened, wide and frantic. "This can't-! He's..."

"Killed," Nelyafinwë spat out, finally. "The Silmarils are gone. The Trees are dead."

Makalaurë dropped the sheet and wound his arms around Nelyafinwë, fists clenching into his tunic and forehead pressing into his chest. Nelyafinwë wondered, truly, how this could be happening, how the Valar had abandoned them already, how his grandfather could have even died in the first place.

"Sir!" The soldier that had woken first, the one still edging on manic, was at the blown-open front doors. "The Prince has returned."

Nelyafinwë stood, Makalaurë on the floor clinging to his hand. Prince? His father was the High King, now. "Bring him in. Quickly. Quickly!"

The soldier ran off, but not before horses hooves could be heard and shouting from his father. He had ridden off alone and returned alone, holding no sword nor banner, riding right into the front entrance and dismounting in a moment.

"Father!" He shouted. His voice had somehow grown louder and _more_ commanding since he'd been gone, but maybe that was just anger. "Father! Ah, Nelyafinwë, where-"

Nelyafinwë ran from Makalaurë to meet his father, nearly body slamming him in a hug. He hadn't realized just how terrifying it'd been to be alone, to be the sole one in charge. He wasn't King, he'd never been, he didn't want to be.

"I haven't been gone so long," Fëanor said, dropping his voice, pulling Nelyafinwë away from him. "Lords, what're you covered in, boy?"

"Blood," Nelyafinwë said.

"Are you hurt?" Fëanor grabbed his face, looking into his eyes under dingy candlelight and stepping back, looking him up and down. "You are not hurt, are you?"

Nelyafinwë shook his head.

"Good. Where is the King?" Fëanor stepped past him, looking down the long hall, at the broken doors to the dining hall, at the captain only now getting to her feet. "Captain! Where is the King?"

That only set the captain off again, falling back to her knees, wailing into the carpet. It was madness, in there, Nelyafinwë felt like he was going to faint. His father turned, grabbing his arms — shoulders would be too high a reach — and confronted him instead.

"Where is the King?" Fëanor met his eyes, reddened by either anger or the tears that'd begun to glisten there. "Where is my father?"

Nelyafinwë swallowed and pointed, to where Makalaurë still sat, where the sheet laid. Fëanor froze, but only for a moment, and soon enough he was stepping to the body and throwing off the sheet.

Nothing moved. Not the twins, holding each other, crying silently, not the captain against the carpet, not the manic soldier. Not even the sconces on the wall seemed to flicker their flames, staying in one place, light without movement. Then Fëanor stood straight, and his horse at the door chuffed, and he turned to Nelyafinwë with eyes that burned like fire.

"The captain is withdrawn," he said. His voice wasn't right, it grated on the ears. "You're my captain now, Russo, do you understand?"

"Yes, y-yes, father." Nelyafinwë tried to keep his voice even but couldn't.

"We leave in an hour." Fëanor stepped back, leaving his father's body uncovered, bare to the firelight. "Pack your things. We travel light. We return to Tirion in the morning."

"Return?" Makalaurë lifted his head. "We're banished."

"I DON'T CARE!" Fëanor screamed, slamming his hand on the wall to his side. The twins yelped and Makalaurë jolted, but Fëanor didn't slow down. "The King is dead! What would you have us do, boy, stay here in cursed Aman with the ruthless Valar and their dead Trees?"

Makalaurë got to his feet. "The Song is gone."

"Do you suppose we find it?" Fëanor approached him with eyes truly glowing, now, red on their own and reflecting in the gilded walls. "The Valar care nothing for us, we could all be slain here like my father and they would sit back on their high thrones and laugh. What does it matter? Shall we bow down and kiss the feet of Manwë, who freed his brother the murderer?"

Makalaurë had nothing to say to that. Because he was right. Because they wouldn't bow down to the Valar, not anymore.

"I will gather the men," Nelyafinwë said, from behind him. His whole body was still shaking, but at least he'd found his voice.

"Good." Fëanor did not turn, did not even crane his head towards him. He stepped down the hall, forced the captain to her feet, and stopped in front of his sons. "Does anyone here wish to disobey me, or are we ready to leave these lands?"

The twins sniffled, trying to stop crying. Nelyafinwë's heart cracked, seeing their freckled faces in the lacking light. They were not children, but they were still _young_. "I miss Nana," Pityo whined, holding onto Tyelkormo's arm.

"Nana abandoned us." Fëanor did not lower his head towards them, only peered down with his eyes. Tyelkormo wrapped the twins together, holding them awkwardly against his chest.

"They are too young," he tried.

"I was younger," Fëanor hissed, "when my mother died. Get yourselves together and meet back in the main hall. You have an hour."

Fëanor was gone in just a moment, around the bend and up the stairs. For a few seconds, no one moved. Then Nelyafinwë crouched beside his grandfather, righted him with his hands around the knife in his chest and his legs straight down, and fixed his blood-crusted and tangled hair best he could. He pulled the sheet over him, then, and straightened, looking out to his brothers waiting for orders. There wasn't a choice, not now. He had to do as he was told.

"You heard him," Nelyafinwë nodded in the direction of the stairs. "Get your things. We leave in an hour." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments, kudos, whatever floats your boat


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still the aftermath of Finwë's death but this time it's just beautiful brother dynamics. I love writing these boys

Nelyafinwë never did get to wash the blood off.

He spent the whole hours getting his bag and gathering everyone that resided in Formenos to the front hall. The captain and he moved Finwë's body to a box, one hastily made by a soldier that knew woodworking, nailing him up inside. The younger brothers, after packing effectively, wandered the main hall like ghosts, like shades looking for some direction.

"Russo," Telvo said, approaching him with a small travel bag thrown over his shoulders. Tyelkormo had taken both of the twins' larger bags, for the time being. He stood in the middle of the carpet, staring straight ahead.

"Yes, Telvo?" Nelyafinwë crouched down, turning from the soldier he had been talking to, brushing loose hair from the boy's forehead. He'd have to fix his braid later. "What is the matter?"

"I don't want to leave Aman," he grumbled. There was dissension in his eyes, but it was a childish expression. "I miss Nana. I want to stay with her."

"We can't." Nelyafinwë shook his head. "We have to go, little pup. We're not allowed to stay here anymore."

"Why?" He scowled.

"A lot of reasons." Nelyafinwë shook his head again and wrapped him in a quick hug, although he was still soaked in old blood. "We have to be strong now, okay? I know you can be strong, I've seen you wrestle the stags and wild pigs on the hunt. It'll be like that, okay, little pup?"

"I don't want to be strong," he said. "I want to be with Nana."

Nelyafinwë wanted to cry. "Where's your brother?"

"Annoying Curvo." He pointed out of the doorway to the dining hall, where they stood, across the main hall where Pityo clung to one of Curvo's arms, chin resting on his shoulder just to talk loudly in his ear. Nelyafinwë smiled only a bit at that, thankful there was _someone_ who could act in their old ways. It was refreshing.

Nelyafinwë leaned over to give Telvo a pat on the head, then bent over still to set a serious hand on his shoulder. "I have a very, very important job for you, okay?"

"A job sounds boring, Russo."

"I want you to get the horses," he said. Telvo lit up at that, candlelight contrasting his blue eyes. "Take Tyelko and Curvo with you, alright? Get all of our horses and bring them here."

"Can I ride with you?" Telvo stood on his toes, grabbing Nelyafinwë's sleeve. He was too old to still be riding with him, too close to being an adult, but Nelyafinwë honestly didn't think he had the heart to say no.

"Of course, you can." Nelyafinwë ruffled his hair and turned him out into the hall. Telvo smirked back at him and ran as fast as he could, crashing into Tyelko's side and nearly knocking him over. Tyelko always had good humor with the twins, though, so he swung Telvo around and threw him to the side, calling over to Pityo and Curvo against the wall. The four of them left out the crushed front doors, making a very wide berth around the splatters and pools of blood.

"What can I do?"

Nelyafinwë turned, and there stood Moryo, in the darkest corner of the dining hall, almost behind the door. His hands never stopped moving, when he was nervous, and he wrung them now, spinning his rings, scratching his knuckles. There was no light in his eyes.

"What you can do, Moryo," Nelyafinwë started, trying _desperately_ to think of something to have him do. He didn't get along so well with the twins, Curvo, and Tyelko, and Makalaurë was too direct a person for him. He was sensitive. "You have everything packed?"

Moryo nodded, eyebrows narrowing. "I have been for a while."

It had almost been an hour, where was their father? If they had time Nelyafinwë would like very much to wash off some of that blood. "Do you want to help me wash?"

Moryo looked him up and down. "No."

"Well," Nelyafinwë breathed, turning out of the dining hall and towards the stairs. "That is what I'm doing now. Unless you want to help get the horses?"

"No," he said.

Nelyafinwë thought he may start to go insane. "Then you can stand here and look ominous. I am going to wash."

He began to walk away, down the hall and around the bend to the stairs, the sconces on the wall all lit and flickering, giving them just enough light. If he stared straight ahead, Nelyafinwë couldn't see to the top of the stairs.

"Wait!" There he was, running after him. "Wait. Russo!"

Nelyafinwë stopped a few steps up. There was exhaustion in his bones like he'd never felt, and it was starting to settle there, threatening to never leave. "Have you changed your mind, Moryo?"

He didn't mean to sound so snappy, he really didn't, but he couldn't think straight, he was thinking about how he had to talk to Moryo. So when he came right back with a sneer and stepped right up next to Nelyafinwë, he could see he'd already pressed too far.

"I was just asking to help!" He cried. "I just want to help. Why do you have to belittle me like that?"

"I'm sorry, Moryo." Nelyafinwë sighed. "I did not mean it."

"I don't know what to do," he went on, worked up enough. "Grandfather is- and _you're_ covered in- I can't look anywhere, it's all-!" He couldn't get a single sentence out, and in frustration, he turned and banged on his older brother's chest. "And now you're just making me angry because I can't even help with anything! Am I still so useless I can't- I can't even-"

Nelyafinwë shushed him at that and wound his arms around him, even if he had to go down a step and lean over. His back ached from it, but it was what needed to be done because Moryo wrapped his arms around him too and sobbed into his chest.

"It's going to be okay," Nelyafinwë said, even though he didn't really even believe it, not then. "You know this is going to be okay. It will be hard, but _we're_ all still alive and- and we still have each other."

"I don't care about the others," he hissed.

"I know you do, you can't try and act tough around me." Nelyafinwë smirked against the top of his head. "You can get all angry and try and punch me but _I've_ seen your knitting and I know you have a fondness for sweets. You big baby."

"I'm not a baby," he whined, but at least it was in good humor, this time.

"Sure, baby." Nelyafinwë stepped back and ruffled his hair, nodding up the stairs. "Would you like to come with me?"

Moryo glanced down the stairs, then up, and nodded. "Mmhm."

The two of them ascended those stairs, or started to, at least. It was the last time they'd ever scale those stairs, because soon there was clopping at the front doors and their father was shouting louder than thunder.

"He's back," Moryo sighed. Nelyafinwë didn't know why _he_ was so upset, he wasn't the one covered in their dead grandfather's blood. But Fëanor was back, anyway, and the two slipped back down the stairs and into the main hall, where the majority of the company was already mounting their horses. The father sat at the front, in full armor, sword at his waist, cloak so long it draped off the horse like a curtain.

"Nelyafinwë!" he shouted, raising the reins in his hands. "Where have you been, boy?"

"Here," Nelyafinwë grumbled, because it wasn't worth it to argue with his father at the moment, or ever. Tyelko came around with his horse, a huge, dappled palomino mare that snuffed at him happily as soon as she saw him.

"Russo! Ruuuuusso!" Telvo screeched, running at him full-force and knocking into his middle. Moryo departed from behind them to climb onto his own horse. "You said I could ride with you!"

"That I did, little pup." Nelyafinwë smiled only a little and set his foot in one stirrup, picking up Telvo and depositing him right behind the horse's withers. He took up the reins as Nelyafinwë hopped on behind him, reaching around for the reins and scruffing Telvo's hair as he was there. "Good?"

"Good!"

Fëanor didn't wait for all of them to be righted; he started off without saying anything, into the dark night. Nelyafinwë passed by to settle in a trot behind him, patting his horse's neck and holding Telvo tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, whatever you want my dudes
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one's also short sowwy
> 
> Feanor and company return to Tirion and the Oath happens. It only gets bloodier from here, boys.

The world was no longer black.

Varda had created new light, in absence of the old, and now where the sky was once blank save the occasional passing cloud were trillions of tiny, glittering stars. It was like peering into the bottom of a fountain filled with glinting coins, reflected only by one light, winking no matter where you stood, deep underwater. Nelyafinwë certainly felt as if he were underwater.

Telvo had long since fallen asleep. It had been long since they had slept well, or at all, and he snored in Nelyafinwë's lap, arms limp by his side, jiggling jelly with the horse's gait. When Nelyafinwë glanced back, he could see Pityo awake on his own horse, a bay stallion that was surprisingly nimble as he leapt over little hills and wove between others.

"Russo."

Nelyafinwë lifted his head towards his father, speeding up a bit to trot beside him. "Yes, father?"

Fëanor did not look his way, staring straight ahead, eye reflected by the stars. He had inherited both Finwë and Miriel's eyes, grey-blue cracked with brighter, hazel-amber. Nelyafinwë had never met his grandmother, obviously, but he had seen paintings of her, and incredibly detailed weavings, and they bore a striking resemblance.

"Did you see it?" Fëanor asked, still not looking his way. Nelyafinwë narrowed his eyes.

"See what, father?"

Fëanor turned his head, finally, but when they locked eyes there was nothing behind his, empty, horrifyingly unfeeling. "My father's death. Did you see it?"

Oh. A jolt of terror sparked through him, remembering that so suddenly, tears pricking his eyes, breath hitching for a moment. "No. When I- he was already..."

Fëanor turned to the front and shifted his hands around the reins, pinkies twitching, looping in and out of the worn leather. "I'm sorry."

Why? Why was he sorry? "Father?"

But he just shook his head. "The first orphan in Aman," he said, voice rising. "That has a ring to it, doesn't it?"

Nelyafinwë tightened his fingers around the reins, holding Telvo a little closer subconsciously. What was his father trying to say, here? Had he gone mad already? It was possible. When Fëanor turned to him again, his eyes glowed red, dark crimson, the cracked amber lighting up like a flame. There was no stable emotion behind those eyes.

But his gaze was gone in a moment, and with it went the suspicions that he'd gone mad. Fëanor sped up, climbing the last small hill into Tirion. The moment they passed that hill the tower in Mindon could be seen, that lantern glowing brilliantly even through the fog that'd settled over the city, over the cliffs and the sea beyond, all of it lit only by the stars and the tower. Nelyafinwë thought Tirion had never looked more beautiful.

"Men!" Fëanor called, reaching back with one hand, and somehow the captain behind him knew what he meant and passed him a torch, which he lit with the captain's own. "Climb the streets! We will make for the highest point in the city, for all the Valar to see!"

What was he planning? Nelyafinwë rode after him anyhow, Telvo having woken and staring around, groggily, smiling at seeing home. Nelyafinwë regretted it would not be so for long.

"Are we going to see Nana again?" he asked, yawning, stretching his arms out in front of him.

Nelyafinwë hadn't thought of that, seeing anyone who still lived in Tirion. Where was Finde? Did he still mourn his banishment, did he still back his father and his wariness of Fëanor? Where was he at that second, could Nelyafinwë see him? Was Makalaurë thinking of his wife, Curvo of his?  _ They _ had loved ones, surely this was cruel to leave.

"Of course," Nelyafinwë answered, lied, ruffling Telvo's hair. Who could tell what would happen, now? "Of course we will, little pup."

The highest point in Tirion rested upon the balcony-precipice of the royal castle, under the watch of Mindon, overlooking the broad sea. When they dismounted their horses not far from the precipice the people of the city had already caught wind of what was happening, of the Banished that had returned. They held torches, all of them, lighting up the world beyond the fog, a thousand red flames tightening the city around them.

Still, Nelyafinwë searched for Finde, for any gold catching the light, for those round brown eyes of his, for any sign of him at all, or his father at the very least, for he was sure to follow close behind. And they did see Ñolofinwë approach, with Turukáno directly behind him, easy to see from his height, and after him Finde, all of them in full armor as Fëanor was.

"Fëanor!" Ñolofinwë called, one hand over the sword at his waist. "Why do you return?"

Behind him, Finde met Nelyafinwë's eyes. They had not been separated for  _ so _ long, but something was changing, he seemed older, more aware of the world outside Princehood and family feuds. Nelyafinwë wished more than anything to speak to him, but from where they stood, it was too far, too long a distance.

"Why have I returned, Ñolofinwë? Is that what you ask?" Fëanor raised his eyebrows and laughed, holding his torch aloft to square his shoulders and address the rest of the gathered crowd. "The High King is dead!"

The city fell into a panic. That much should have been obvious, their King was  _ dead, _ but Fëanor telling them must have been more an experience. Surely he had to be lying? 

"Killed, he was!" Fëanor went on. "Killed in my own walls, killed in Formenos after the death of the Trees! The murderer I name Moringotto, now, the darkest being in this world, for he stole too my Silmarils after slaying my father!"

"That cannot be true!" Ñolofinwë stepped forward, holding up his own torch, shaking his head. "Melkor was approved to be released, he could not have-"

"Then ask my son!" Fëanor spat, grabbing Nelyafinwë roughly, shoving him forward in the crowd, showing him to the people. "Ask my son, still covered in his blood! Do you want his body, half-brother, for proof? Would you like to see the corpse of the first of the Eldar to be slain?"

Ñolofinwë had no answer. He fell silent. Finde would not release Nelyafinwë from his stare, however, keeping him where he stood, looking him up and down in his costume of gore. What was that stare? What was he thinking?

"I am the High King now!" Fëanor started again, taking the attention back. He was delving into a speech though, one that allowed Nelyafinwë to step back into the crowd of his brothers. The twins held onto him, and Makalaurë behind him also, but still Finde kept him where he stood, watching. The speech was, also, one that fired them up, but it was so overtaking and intense in voice that they were caught up in it, and none could have placed exactly what his words had been.

When Fëanor called for his sons to promise an Oath, it was only the obvious option. After all, they were Noldor — they would not stand down for anyone, not even the Valar. Makalaurë said there was something terrible in the Song, something deadly rising, but that was all he said before they raised their swords and chanted Fëanor's Oath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, comments, anything you want! Thanks for readin


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nelyo (kind of) makes amends with Finno
> 
> this one's longer don't worry

There was little time to make amends.

The Ambarussa, when released after the speech and the Oath, ran straight home to their mother. Makalaurë made for his wife, and Curvo for his, and Tyelko and Moryo both went home also, but Nelyafinwë had no time to think about what he had to do. Who he had to part with.

Findekáno took him aside, pulling him across the high streets of Tirion, to his home and in the back staircase, into his room where no one could see them.

"You're doomed," was the first thing he said. "You're doomed, you idiot, you  _ fool, _ you're doomed."

"You're coming," Nelyafinwë pointed out, stepping closer, setting his torch on one of the sconces on the wall. "We'll be doomed together."

Finde shook his head. There was something wrong, but Nelyafinwë couldn't place it. He didn't know how to read him, why couldn't he?

"Fin," he called. Finde shook his head, again, and turned away to the bathroom attached to his room. Nelyafinwë followed him, just for curiosity's sake, and there he was, soaking a towel and turning back.

He said nothing, only took his arm and pressed the towel, dripping, to his skin. He was washing the blood off him, scrubbing it from the creases of his wrist, on his knuckles and fingers, stained in his cuticles and in the little rivers of his palm.

"Fin-" Nelyafinwë started, trying to ask why he was doing that, what he was doing.

"What do you think I'm doing?" He sniffed, holding his hand tight as he scrubbed at his finger. "I can't look at you."

"Can't look at me?" he huffed, not knowing what to do with that. "What are you talking-"

"What do you think!" Finde pulled back, gesturing to the mirror to his right. Nelyafinwë turned, met his own eyes, but he was referring to his state, blood across his cheek somehow and in his hair, down his front. He looked horrible. Like  _ he'd _ just killed someone. Why hadn't he washed this off sooner?

"He was using you," Finde spat, turning him back so he could take hold of his face and pat off the blood on his cheek. "He was using you, Maitimo, how didn't you- wash this-  _ Eru.” _

He had to stop, turn away and lean his elbows on the counter, biting his lip in an attempt not to cry. Nelyafinwë tried setting a hand on his back but he only stiffened.

"Fin?" He called, leaning way over too. "What's wrong? I don't understand."

"What's wrong!" Finde stood back up straight, rolling up on his toes when Nelyafinwë straightened, too. "Our grandfather is dead, Maitimo! Your father is King now, he's going to ruin us, split us at the very least, and you're-" He gestured, biting his lip again to stop crying, but there were tears in his eyes and they slipped right past. "Did you see it? His death?"

Why did everyone ask him that? He didn't want to think about it, he didn't want to remember any of it. "I was- the first. To find him. After..."

"And they didn't let you wash," Fin keened. "So your father could prove he was dead. That's so- that's so  _ horrible _ Maitimo, I can't- how are you still fine?"

Fine? Who ever said he was fine? "I'm the Eldest. Father's captain. I- have to be."

That wasn't the right answer. Findekáno took his arm back and scrubbed, getting all the congealed blood from the right arm and holding that hand tightly as he picked at his nails.

"Fin," Nelyafinwë cooed, stepping closer. "It's okay."

"This is  _ so _ the opposite of okay!" he shouted, taking Nelyafinwë's tunic in his hands and pulling it off him, trying to get rid of the blood, so Nelyafinwë slid out of it and let him crumple it in the corner of the bathroom. "You're taking a bath."

Nelyafinwë thought he wanted nothing more than a bath at that second, but Findekáno was still worried, he couldn't leave him that way. "Fin, it's just how it is. I have to be there for them, it doesn't matter if I- if I saw- if it was..."

It certainly wasn't helping to think back to that memory, now, he couldn't think about it, Finde was upset-

"Maitimo," Finde cooed, pausing in filling the bath to turn to him, fully, so attentive Nelyafinwë had to look away in embarrassment. He shouldn't have gotten so emotional out of nowhere, he was- "Maitimo, I want you to be upset. If you act fine then I know you're keeping it in. And that's worse."

"Who says I'm upset at all?" he said, trying not to sound like he was whining as his voice went high.

"Maitimo," Finde laughed, not in humor but in the obvious lie. "Your hands are shaking. You're crying."

Nelyafinwë wiped his cheek. He hadn't been crying, he thought, he couldn't be — he didn't cry, he wasn't a child — but his cheeks were wet and when he took a breath it hitched in his throat. "Oh, Eru."

"It's okay to cry," Finde cooed, again, stepping closer so they were almost hugging, so Nelyafinwë couldn't look away. Findekáno looked like he was going to cry too, though, and that shut down Nelyafinwë in his emotions. He stepped back forcefully and held his hands together, tightly, to stop them shaking.

"I can't," he said. "Not while you're upset. It's okay, I'm very good at shutting it off."

"Maitimo!" Fin screamed, then bent over and covered his face in his hands. "I can't believe this. You really-  _ ugh." _

He turned away again, holding his face in his hands and trying not to look anywhere near him. Why was he doing that? Nelyafinwë couldn't figure it out, he couldn't pick apart how he was acting, it was driving him insane. They hadn't been separated so long, had they? Had he done something wrong? It had to be that. He had to have said something wrong.

"Fin," he called, but Finde just shook his head, turned away. "What did I do? I- I'm trying to help everyone, I'm trying to be strong for them. My brothers, they're- they look to me for guidance."

"And where do you look?" Finde turned back, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed. "Where do you look for guidance, Nelyafinwë?"

It was more unsettling than he thought it'd be to hear that name from Findekáno. How was he supposed to answer that, anyhow? "My father, I suppose. The- King."

"Your father who almost disowned you when you accidentally got high,  _ once? _ That father?" Finde was advancing on him, only growing angrier when he heard Nelyafinwë speak. "The one that made you swear an unbreakable Oath? That used you to his own advance?"

"He's my father," Nelyafinwë said, but it was weakly, not entirely truthful. "Our King."

"And where do you think he'll lead us?" Findekáno hissed. "He declared war on the most dangerous and ruthless Vala to exist. He made his sons swear an Oath. He's-"

"Why are we talking about my father?" Nelyafinwë shook his head and stepped closer, too. "Are you trying to just- get me riled?"

"Yes!" Finde threw his hands up and scoffed. "Yes, I want you to be upset about what's happening! Unless Fëanor the Mad has already brainwashed you so-"

"Brainwashed me!" Nelyafinwë couldn't stop himself from getting angrier, then.

"What do you think this is?" Findekáno's shoulders raised, defensive, ready to fight back against Nelyafinwë. "You don't think it's worrying what he's done! I thought you had more respect for yourself than that, Nelyo."

That name, he hated him saying that name! Why was he doing this, trying to get them to fight? All he wanted to do was sleep or wash, he wanted to say goodbye to his mother — there wasn't a chance she would come — and take care of his brothers. See his home once more before they left.

"You can't speak to me like that," Nelyafinwë hissed, voice low, too distracted now by what he wasn't doing to quell his anger. "You think you have the right to tell me that I'm brainwashed, whether I respect myself or not. I'm doing the right thing here, following my father.  _ He's _ right. Moringotto murdered the King, he stole our property and the Valar have left us to fend for ourselves. So if you're simply trying to get me angry, then I have other places to be."

Nelyafinwë made a move to turn, grab his tunic and go home, but Findekáno roused behind him.

"I'm scared I've lost you already, Maitimo!" he shouted.

"Oh, I'm Maitimo now?" Nelyafinwë turned and crossed his arms over his chest. "That's kind of you."

"Will you stop it?" He shook his head. "Can't you see I'm just worried about you?"

"Is that what I was supposed to get from this?" Nelyafinwë spat. Who did he think he was, saying that? "Is it the blood I'm covered in? Is that the worry?"

Findekáno tipped his head back, humorless exhaustion on his face. "I wanted to clean it off you. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Nelyafinwë was shaking again, but he didn't know if it was anger or sorrow. "Okay?" he squeaked. "Our grandfather is dead. Stabbed through the chest with Moringotto’s dagger. He was trying to protect us, he tried to go after him, the Murderer, he was still in his slippers. There was so much blood, Eru, there- on the walls, splattered across- pooled, on- on the floor..."

He was shrinking in on himself, again. Why did Fin keep reminding him of what happened? He couldn't feel the air around him, everything was fuzzy and distant, even as he sunk to his knees on the tiled floor. Fin caught him, holding his head against his chest, short enough to do so. Nelyafinwë couldn't control his emotions any longer, he couldn't keep up the effort, not after so much strain, so he let out a long cry and fisted his hands in Finde's shirt. He sobbed against him, pulling him tight, and Findekáno stroked his hair gently against it.

"Why is this- happening- to us?" he whined, small-voiced, helpless. "Did we- did we do something to- to deserve this?"

"I don't think so," Finde answered, truthfully. "I don't know what we could've done."

"I'm scared," Nelyafinwë whimpered out, grasping tighter at Findekáno. "Father is going to do something terrible. He isn't the same. I don't know what I'm going to do."

"No matter what happens," Fin picked him up, still holding him just as tight. "I'm going to follow  _ you. _ I don't know what your father is going to do. I hate him. He's gone mad already if he thinks... nevermind. It's you I trust. Not him."

"I trust your father," Nelyafinwë admitted. "If it comes to it I'll follow you, and your House."

"And betray Fëanor?" He shook his head. "You can't do that."

"What if he dies?" Nelyafinwë went right on, because at that moment it seemed as though nothing was too outlandish a statement. "What if he's killed? The crown will fall to me. I'm next. I'll- I'll-"

"Don't promise anything right now." Finde set his hand firm against Nelyafinwë's cheek, parting them just a bit to stare into his eyes, sparking blue into silver. "Nothing can be certain."

"But I'm next," he breathed. He'd said it and now it was too late, he was thinking about it, that was the  _ truth _ . "I'm next. What if I'm killed? Káno can't hold the throne, he's too- and if  _ he's- _ Tyelko could never-"

"Shh, shh." Findekáno cradled his face with both hands, then, cutting him off. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" Nelyafinwë shot back. "It can happen. It can happen, now, why shouldn't I say that?" 

"Because I can't think about it!" Findekáno shook his head vigorously and swept Nelyafinwë back into a hug, squeezing him so tight it hurt. "I can't even look at you so bloody, I can't think about anyone,  _ especially you, _ killed!"

Nelyafinwë said nothing then, mostly because he had seen Finde killed in his own mind and couldn't manage to speak. It was unthinkable. Not something that could even be considered.

So they didn't consider it, not either of them. They left the promises half-finished, washed the blood away, and parted ways before Findekáno's father could come home and find them together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, whatever floats your boat!


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they burn the ships haha i love murder
> 
> content warning for murder? pretty gory stuff I guess . also almost drowning warning and also physical abuse this is a serious one

When the Noldor departed from Tirion the stars were at their back and nothing but the endless dark sea awaited them.

Nelyafinwë had tried speaking to his mother, to get her to come, but she was so angry she couldn't speak, too grieved by their father and his actions to follow. She gave her eldest a ring of gold and rubies to remember her, one she'd made when he was younger — and still fit — but that was all he had of her. Makalaurë would not speak to anyone, either. His wife would not come. Curufinwë the Younger had brought his wife, however, and Nelyafinwë supposed that was a sign he had done right by their father.

But the night stayed, and the night was dark. By torchlight only they rode to the distant waves of Alqualondë. It was joyous, for some; Arafinwë and his house called it home, from the Teleri half of their family. Nelyafinwë had never loved the sea. It was unfeeling, forever distant and always thrashing, angry.

Fëanor demanded their ships. Even his sons could see this was a tall order, and those who already opposed Fëanor rose up to deny his advances. That was when their King gave another speech.

In a millennium, Nelyafinwë doubted he would remember what exactly it was his father had said that night, but it was the feeling these speeches gave him that stuck forever. Need to do good — good by their people, good by their House and the Crown. It roused them more than they'd ever been, and in those moments of madness, Nelyafinwë knew they would do anything Fëanor asked of them.

And they did.

The killing had started suddenly, with the murder of the Teleri boat-keeper, standing strong at the head of their fleet. When Fëanor drove him through with his sword, the emotion only grew more furious, more desperate to kill. Nelyafinwë drew his sword without thinking, charging forward with his brothers and his cousins, cutting down his own kind without a second thought. The same way Moringotto had. The same way his grandfather had died.

The battle, if you could call it that, seemed as though it would never end. Fëanor boarded the head-ship quickly, and Nelyafinwë made an effort to follow him closely, the rest of the brothers behind him. Each one of them was covered head to toe in blood, and for a second of madness, Nelyafinwë wondered why he had washed at all if this was going to be the dress of the Noldor.

"We set sail!" Fëanor called over the screams, over the fire and hacking of swords. Through the mess was Ñolofinwë, staring up at his half-brother with expectancy. "We will send ships back for the rest of the company. Come!"

For a moment, Nelyafinwë almost leaped over the deck of the boat. How could they leave them behind? Surely they _would_ send ships back. The moment his father met his gaze shame washed over Nelyafinwë; how could he distrust his father? 

The waves mirrored the anger; every movement on the water threatened to drown them. Surely Ulmo was not overly pleased of the murder of his people, which Nelyafinwë figured was fair. The twins looked sickly, though, and not just from the blood and red lighting. 

“Are we ever going to see Nana again?” Pityo asked, clutching his brother tight, having to shout over the sea. 

How was Nelyafinwë supposed to answer that? “Of course we will, little pup.” Even then, it seemed too kind a phrase. Little pup? Who was he fooling here? They had killed their own kind, they were drenched in blood and saltwater. “We will get the Silmarils and we can- we’ll see her again.” 

He should have just told the twins the truth; even if they retrieved the Silmarils (when, _when,_ he should think), there was no chance Nerdanel would go to Arda, nor would the Noldor want to return to Aman. That is, if they were even allowed back. Nelyafinwë peered over the rocking edge of the ship to Tirion and the glowing tower in Mindon, and wondered how long it would take to forget his mother’s face. 

The shores they reached were rocky and black. Maybe it was only the strange lighting of the stars and firelight mixed that glistened on the smooth rocks, but the world was darker in Arda. This land had never seen the Trees, never seen the Valar. 

Fëanor’s men stepped off the ships faster than they had ever moved before. Noldor were not built for the sea, and all the Teleri-descended Arafinwëans were on the other shore, waiting for the ships to be returned. Nelyafinwë made sure all his brothers and soldiers were on land before taking hold of the one he’d just departed to push it back into the waves. 

“Nelyafinwë!” Fëanor shouted behind him, but Nelyafinwë couldn’t even turn to face him before a hand grasped the back of his armor and wrenched him away. “What are you doing?” 

For a minute, Nelyafinwë didn’t understand. For too long, he didn’t understand. “Sending the ships back, father. I can take this one back, or- or-” He stopped short, seeing the glowing red of his father’s eyes. “I can send a captain. I don’t have to go myself. If you need me here.” 

“You think I would permit you to cross the sea again?” Fëanor’s face wasn’t one of a living man. He’d left whatever soul he had before with his father’s, across the world. “Take a torch. We burn the ships.” 

“What?” Nelyafinwë truly thought he had misinterpreted something, then, even as Fëanor handed him a torch and called to pass more to his brothers and the soldiers. “Father, I don’t understand.” 

His confusion wasn’t helped by the backhand that nearly knocked Nelyafinwë to the black sand. Fëanor’s hand was stinging red with the movement, and Nelyafinwë hadn’t been able to stop the childish yelp that escaped his throat. What was happening? His father had berated him before, quite badly at times, but he’d never hit him, he’d never laid a hand on any of them before. 

“Father-” Nelyafinwë squeaked.

“My snake of a half-brother plans to overthrow me!” Fëanor turned back to the red crowd, shining bloody and black, the rocks beneath them and the smoke in the air. It blotted out the sky. “How long before Ñolofinwë takes my title? My throne? You see how he has threatened me before, you have seen his suspicious activity yourselves, men!” 

There was nothing more he had to say. Everyone had a torch, everyone held that madness. There was a rush forward, almost frantic, growing hysteric, and with some strange, twisted fear Nelyafinwë rose up between his father and the crowd. 

“Think about this!” he cried. His cheek burned red. “These are our _people,_ our cousins and family!” 

“Do you disobey me, Nelyafinwë?” Fëanor growled, holding his own torch as if he intended to set his eldest alight with it. “Will you disobey me here?” 

“Yes,” Nelyafinwë said, throwing down his torch, washing it in the waves, extinguishing it. He could not abandon Findekáno, never again, he _couldn’t_. “You are abandoning our people. I will not abandon them.” 

“Your feelings for your Valiant Findekáno holding you back, son?” Fëanor stepped up closer to him, smoke rising around him, twisting through his hair like snakes. “You disobey me for _him?_ What, have you sold yourself to him? Does he control your actions?” 

Nelyafinwë swallowed. He had no doubt his father would hit him again, he certainly would if he truly disobeyed him. “I will not contribute to your betrayal.” 

The torch in Fëanor’s hand thrust against his arm, firm and without a second thought, burning into the skin between plates of armor. Nelyafinwë screamed, tried to get away, but his father held the collar of his tunic under his armor and there was no where he could go. 

“BURN THEM!” Fëanor howled, and for a second, Nelyafinwë thought he meant him, too. But the men shoved past them, around them, a thousand burning torches lighting up the bloodied Teleri ships. Somewhere in the madness Fëanor let go of Nelyafinwë, turning to contribute his own flame, and Nelyafinwë slunk off, darting through the people to stumble, half-crazed, feeling half-dead, to the small hill above the beach. 

The sky was gone, replaced only by smoke and screams. The black sand and rocks on the shore seemed to deepen, like a sinkhole down to the Halls. With the sky gone, the ground gone, everything in between floated, suspended midair, as if held there by nothing at all. Through it all Nelyafinwë could see Makalaurë, eyes blown wide and terrified, not screaming but crazed in some other sense, one hand holding onto Pityo. The twins were- they didn’t seem to want to be doing any of this, they knew it was wrong, and- Telvo, where was Telvo? 

Nelyafinwë didn’t seem to even remember the burn on his arm as he ran back down that hill. He kept his eyes trained on Makalaurë in the crowd, with Pityo on his arm, and suddenly their fear seemed to make sense. Of course, the fear in this situation was enough explanation. But the alternative was much, much worse. 

“Káno!” he screamed, throat straining to be loud enough, shoving past people he didn’t recognize at all. The crowd was living, thrashing, trying to keep him from moving straight, but Nelyafinwë was tall enough to see over everyone. He made it to Makalaurë and Pityo on the shore in hardly any time at all grasping onto both of them at once. 

“Russo,” Pityo cried. “Telvo, he- he tried crawling back on board, he wanted to go back home-”

“He’s not with you?” Nelyafinwë raised his head to the ships, searching through smoke and darkness. Something cold had settled in his stomach. “Which ship?” 

This, at least, Pityo knew. He whimpered and pointed behind him, right behind him, where the screams were louder — and more familiar. Nelyafinwë waded through the water to climb onto the side, swearing as he grabbed onto the smoldering hot wood of the deck. His body wouldn’t stop moving even if he _wanted_ to. 

Telvo was sitting curled up at the very back of the ship, just under the swan-head at the stern, sobbing and screaming incoherently. Nelyafinwë ran for him, stumbling and coughing through the heat, until the weight of he and Telvo began to force the floorboards to sink. 

“Telvo!” Nelyafinwë couldn’t shout very loudly through the smoke, it was too thick there, but Telvo heard him anyway. He was within hand-grabbing distance; he reached. “Grab onto me!” 

Telvo didn’t say a word as he lunged forward, and suddenly Nelyafinwë had an armful and nowhere to go. He turned — just to see the blackened deck cave in beyond them. 

“Can you swim?” Nelyafinwë yelled in his ear. Obviously he knew _how_ to swim, how couldn’t he? But Telvo was wheezing and coughing and he didn’t look too well off. He couldn’t answer. Nelyafinwë jumped into the water anyway. 

The cold was surrounding them. The dread that had grown in his stomach had flooded his entire body, like the smoke in his lungs, and it was all he could do not to pass out from lack of air right then and there. Telvo’s arms loosened around his torso, though, and Nelyafinwë had no choice but to kick for the surface, hold onto his brother with all the strength in him, and crawl up on shore. 

Everything from there was blurry, not truly real but not truly dream-like, either. He thought he saw Pityo over him, then Makalaurë and Tyelko screaming behind him, but they were moving in and out too quick for him to see. At some point he was sure he heard his father and Pityo shouting back and forth, but whatever was said didn’t enter his brain. 

The darkness drowned him. Arda was lightless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, kudos, whatever floats your boat! thanks for reading as always


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not much content in this chap but we're gettin there .. besides I don't have much else to do in quarantine so expect more
> 
> stay safe and healthy and massive gratitude to the emergency workers

It was a day before Nelyafinwë remembered being lucid again. He woke in a cart, a cart being pulled by horses, one that must have been built quickly. He didn't remember having tools like that on the ships. 

It was Curvo that sat beside him, with his wife, and the cart behind theirs — which Nelyafinwë faced — held Tyelkormo, and Telvo, and Pityo sitting upright. Curvo was having a very heated discussion with his wife but he spoke in hushed tones, hissing and whispering while she spat back in jabs. It took only a small movement for Curvo to notice he was awake. 

"Russo!" He sighed, relieved, glancing back at his wife then turning, fully, to look over Nelyafinwë and slide a hand through his hair. He was cleaned up a bit, but only on the face; the rest of him was still splattered with blood. "Russo, we were beginning to think something was wrong. How're you feeling?" 

Nelyafinwë turned back up to the stars. There were so many of them, thousands, and counting them helped him wake himself up. "I'm alright," he said, something like a croak, and sat up on his elbows. "Are you two alright?" 

It was a pointed question. As Nelyafinwë sat up more to peer around his brother at his sister-in-law, the uncomfortableness of the argument sunk in. 

"Can I ask you something, Russo?" Curvo turned, trying to bring his attention away from his wife. 

"Yes," Nelyafinwë said, "of course." 

"Hypothetically," he started, already growing as frantic as he was before, "if- if- you see, I've always been good at keeping secrets, and I suppose Alyare is better at it, but — and this is all hypothetical — if she was- pregnant, what are we to do about that? Hypothetically." 

Nelyafinwë tried not to sit up so fast, but he did anyhow, meeting Alyare's eyes over Curvo. There was no lie there. No hypothetical. "How long have you kept this secret?" 

"Over six months," Alyare supplied. "Since- before you went to Formenos."

Six months. Nelyafinwë pushed Curvo back in the cart to get a proper look at his wife, but she had always worn lots of loose clothes and she had looked no different there. He supposed she  _ did _ look very tired. She had to turn a bit and press her tunic tight against her to show her belly. 

"Okay," Nelyafinwë breathed, and Curvo cleared his throat, lowering his head. "This is why you came with us, then?" 

Alyare swallowed and blinked furiously. Her eyes were glistening, bright blue under the stars. "I know it is dangerous," she whispered, breathless, "to be carrying-  _ here _ . But I- I- I can't break a family." Then, finally, she met Nelyafinwë's eyes. "I don't know what we're going to do." 

That same chill from the ships settled in Nelyafinwë's stomach. It was so recent he had to look over at Telvo, smiling while listening to his twin and his brother, not burned to ash like Nelyafinwë had pictured when he heard his screams on the burning ship. So he lurched forward, grasped one of Alyare's hands with one of his own, and pointed with the other. 

"Pityo almost drowned and burned," he murmured. "Any one of us could have burned. But we all survived. I saved Pityo, I protected him, and I will do so with you for as long as you and your child live. Do you understand?" 

Alyare let a few tears drop from her eyes and managed a watery smile. "I understand." 

Nelyafinwë smiled back at her, genuine, and let her go to pull Curvo into a tight hug. It took him by surprise, judging on how he jolted. "Have you told father?" 

Curvo turned his head to the left, over their shoulders. There, at the head of the pack in what seemed like leagues ahead, was Fëanor glowing bright with a banner in his hand. "No," Curvo admitted. "I don't know how."

Nelyafinwë followed his gaze and huffed. That was fair, he thought. Nelyafinwë didn’t think he’d be able to gather the courage to tell Fëanor if he were in Curvo’s position. For a moment it was dizzying to think about that, being a father, but Nelyafinwë shoved the thought out of his head before he could dwell on it. “I’ll be there with you, if you want,” he promised, but he didn’t know why he would promise that. Curvo let him go to study his eyes. 

“This is my responsibility,” he said, but he said it like he’d meant to beg Nelyafinwë to come. “I- I can’t put that pressure on you.” 

“What pressure?” Nelyafinwë managed a smile and sent one to Alyare, too, because surely she needed one as much as they did. “You’re my brother, Curvo, and you’re my sister too, Alyare. There’s no pressure here.” 

That’s all they needed to hear. The two of them sighed with relief, sitting back in the cart, relaxed. Nelyafinwë was still on edge, thinking about waking so suddenly to Curvo’s predicament, then what had come before he woke — the burning of the ships. What was Findekáno thinking of him, right then? How could they even cross over to Arda, now that their ride was burned on the shore? Oh, if Nelyafinwë could speak to Finde, then, tell him how sorry he was that he couldn’t manage to stop his father, that he’d abandoned him-

“Thinking about the ships, huh?” Curvo shifted beside him. His voice jolted through Nelyafinwë’s system, shocking him from his thoughts. “I… I don’t know if that was the  _ right _ thing to do, but…” Curvo shook his head, and Nelyafinwë realized with horror that even  _ Curvo _ wasn’t entirely onboard with what their father was doing. “But I know Ñolofinwë is a snake, and I know father’s suspicions are not misplaced.” 

Well, there it was. Curvo certainly wasn’t planning a coup or anything, that was for sure. The world would sooner end than see Curvo betray Fëanor. “I will not abandon our people like he did,” Nelyafinwë said anyways, not caring to be overheard by anyone anymore. He could still feel the memory of Fëanor’s backhand on his cheek, his torch pressed into his arm. “Our father is not well.” 

“You only say that because you betrayed him,” Curvo scoffed. Why had Nelyafinwë thought he’d doubted Fëanor? Curvo was just as stupidly loyal as he always was. “I can’t say I wasn’t  _ surprised _ when he slapped you, but- but you wouldn’t follow him.” 

“I wouldn’t let him leave our people behind, Curvo.” Nelyafinwë shook his head and sat up more, and it was when he turned a bit that he felt the burns on his arms. He wouldn’t whine about it, not like that horrible squeak he’d let out when Fëanor hit him. Not again. “They are our people. Ñolofinwë pledged his House to father. Even Findaráto had come, and Artanis, Angamaïte and Arakáno, they had killed  _ their _ own people to follow us. Where does the suspicion lay?” 

“Oh, you’re just smitten over cousin Findekáno.” Curvo rolled his eyes. Anger shot through Nelyafinwë,  _ rage, _ hearing that echoing from his father to his brother. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’d betray us for him. You always did love him more than us.” 

Nelyafinwë could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Before he could do something rash, he stood in the cart and jumped down, stumbling for a moment on the solid ground. His legs were still asleep. The cart behind them, with the twins and Tyelko, slowed and swerved a bit. Nelyafinwë could not sit there any longer. He would rather ride alone. 

“Oh, don’t be so  _ dramatic, _ Russo!” Curvo sat up to watch him walk past, towards the front of their company. “Sit back down, what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

He was panicked, Nelyafinwë noticed as he glanced back. Panicked, probably from wondering if he would still back them when he had to tell Fëanor about the child. Nelyafinwë didn’t know if he would, but he could think about it as he rode. One of the captains saw him searching for his mare and tugged her reins over to him, pulling off to the side to let him mount. Her coat was ashy and the ends of some of her wiry mane had coiled from burning. Something in his heart cried seeing her so out of sorts, but she was just as happy to see him, even getting down on her front legs to let him climb on easier. 

Nelyafinwë did a very good job of ignoring everyone as they rode. It was a long ride, longer than the path from Formenos to Tirion, longer than Tirion to Alqualondë, and the monotony of it was wearing on them all. Nelyafinwë was glad for the exhaustion; surely no one would pay attention to his obvious discomfort with the burns on his arm. Surely no one would ask about what he had done at the Burning of the Ships, either, so he lifted his chin and straightened his back and thought of nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nelyo: no thoughts head empty
> 
> comments, kudos, whatever floats your boat! thanks for reading


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back at it again with another chapter like months later than the last aaa
> 
> enjoy friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's short there'll be spam don't worry

It was a long time before anything of importance happened at all. The wilds of Arda were nothing like Aman, though, and the things that grew there were uncontrolled and wrong. Trees moved when they should not have, eyes watched from the bushes, and birds screamed at all hours of the night. When they finally settled in Mithrim, beside the lake that seemed to stretch on forever, the stars still sparkled above and there was no sign the dim light would brighten. Nelyafinwë thought it was harder to see in Arda, harder to comprehend the wilds, but perhaps it was just him. The twins and Tyelko rode constantly in the trees and around their camp, plotting and mapping like they had with Oromë, in the old days. Nelyafinwë had all but missed Huan’s presence until he came emerging from the woods with a stag in his jaws and a smile on his lips. Perhaps he had been too distracted.

Curvo came to him twice that week to ask if he would come with him to tell their father about his child-to-be, but Nelyafinwë promised he would soon each time. How soon he was unsure, and they were running out of time, anyways. Alyare was all but bedridden by the time their first week was drawing to a close. The third time Curvo came to him was just after supper — venison from that stag Huan had caught — following him from the firepit towards the tent that was his. 

“Russo!” he called, coming up behind him, grasping his arm. It was the wrong arm, the one with the still-healing burns, and Nelyafinwë hissed and yanked away. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

“I need to brush Calcarocco,” Nelyafinwë grunted, nodding over his shoulder towards where the horses stood tied to posts. His own mare was grazing, peaceful, and raised her head when Nelyafinwë backed from Curvo. 

“Please,” he begged. “Alyare- she’s torn up by this, she- she can’t sleep, I’m worried about- our boy.” 

Boy? “She has seen the child?” Nelyafinwë crossed his arms. 

“Yes,” Curvo panted. “He is coming soon.  _ Please, _ brother, I’m sorry for whatever I said…” 

Hearing him beg like that made Nelyafinwë feel very stupid indeed for holding back for so long. What had he even gotten angry about? Being confronted with his friendship with Finde? It was hardly something hidden, and his brother was having a baby. What was he thinking? 

“Father is still sitting by the fire,” Nelyafinwë said, grasping Curvo’s shoulder and turning them back around. “Let’s talk.” 

Curvo looked like he was going to faint but dragged himself after Nelyafinwë with whatever courage he managed to scrape up. 

Fëanor was, in fact, still sitting by the fire. He wasn’t eating, nor was he talking to any of the brothers that still sat around their fire. His sword was in his hand, but not threateningly, only being used to poke at the embers. Nelyafinwë stopped at his side. 

“What?” Fëanor growled. It was uncalled for, Nelyafinwë thought, to be so crass before he’d even spoken. He wasn’t in the mood for it. 

“We have to talk,” Nelyafinwë shot back, trying not to sound so impolite, but the moment he spat his words a little too hard Fëanor shot to his feet and suddenly that sword looked very dangerous in his hands. What was he  _ thinking? _ Maybe he’d betrayed him at the Burning of the Ships, but he was still the eldest and held the most responsibilities of the brothers. “We have something to tell you. Father.” 

“You hear him too?” Fëanor hurried to say, glancing at the fire behind him and shoving he and Curvo forward, away from the light and towards the lake. By the time they stopped Nelyafinwë did not think his father could lose any more of his mind. “You hear him? Moringotto is coming.” 

What? “That is not what we were going to say.” 

Fëanor deflated. For a moment, he stared out into the lake, at the trillions of stars reflected against the glassy surface, and then the forest beyond. Then he sheathed his sword, turned back to Nelyafinwë and Curvo, and settled. “What were you going to say?” 

“Father,” Curvo lurched forward, reaching with his hands, then pulling back. “I- it’s me who has something to tell you. Russo is only being kind. It is- it’s me.” 

Fëanor furrowed his eyebrows and his eyes flickered with light. “What have you done?” 

“Nothing!” Curvo shook his head, braid flying over his shoulder to rest down his back. “Nothing bad. I don’t think. I-” He cut himself off, chewing his lip, fiddling with his smith-rough hands, and Nelyafinwë thought he had never seen his brother so nervous. “Father, I- I am having a son.” 

Fëanor’s stare didn’t waver. “What?” 

“Alyare is pregnant,” he squeaked. “You’re- a grandfather.” 

For too long of a moment, Fëanor stared straight ahead at Curvo, eyes glowing, blue-silver-hazel, and Nelyafinwë wondered if his nephew would have the same eyes. “A grandson,” he whispered, finally, turning up to his eldest slowly. Everything seemed to be moving slowly for him. “You knew about this?” 

“Only for a week,” Nelyafinwë muttered. 

“And you did not tell me?” Fëanor’s voice rose, carrying over the lake, echoing around them as though they stood trapped in a globe. “You did not tell me. Why did you not tell me sooner? If you know it is a son than he must be arriving soon, why have you held this from me? You would betray me again, Nelyafinwë?” 

“It is not my child,” Nelyafinwë defended. His heart was starting to beat quicker, thinking of how strong his backhand was. “I’m- sorry, father.” 

“It is not his fault!” Curvo threw himself in front of Nelyafinwë before their father could even speak. “I was scared. I did not know what to say, and Alyare was- separated from me, when we were- in Formenos. I did not know either.” 

“She is in danger,” Fëanor rolled on. “Moringotto plans to attack us. Where is Alyare?” 

Curvo hurried to lead him away, but Nelyafinwë had not missed what he said and went after both of them. “Plans to attack!” he hissed, lowering himself down so he could speak quieter to his father. “How do you know, father? What does Moringotto plan?” 

“I can hear him,” Fëanor mused. His eyes really did glow red, then. It wasn’t ever so noticeable in Tirion, near the Trees, but with this darkness Nelyafinwë could see how bright they were. “I hear him in my head.” 

He had thought plenty of times that his father had lost some piece of him, but this sent slivers of ice down his spine. Was he mad? How did that happen, anyhow, to hear voices like that? It could not be real. As Fëanor went off to Curvo’s tent, as he saw Alyare was fine and paced out in front of their tent, Nelyafinwë settled painfully on that last thought. He could not be truly hearing these voices, could he? Moringotto surely did not plan to attack so early, did he? 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one's pretty long sorry y'all
> 
> f in the chat for like the entire lineage of Finwe honestly

Two days later they were woken by drums. 

For one halting moment, everyone in the camp roused in confusion. No one knew what was going on, especially not Nelyafinwë (although his brothers thought otherwise). Many of the captains came to his tent, with his brothers — Curvo the most startled of them — asking for Fëanor, and what the drums were. 

“Russo,” Curvo panted. “Moringotto.” 

Nelyafinwë had tried not to think of it. But it was right there, what their father had said, and Nelyafinwë had to find him. “Prepare for battle,” he told the men in front of him. “Armor up. And find the King!” 

With that he ducked into his tent, a small thing that brushed against the top of his head but was big enough to allow him to dress. It was unfamiliar, this armoring, but he had a cold feeling in his chest that told him this was going to be a frequent ritual. He made sure to be quick about it before he could dwell on it. 

“Nelyafinwë!” his father was calling. “Son!” 

Nelyafinwë took a deep breath and steeled himself. “Yes, father!” he called back, exiting the tent. Fëanor stood right out front, one hand on his sword at his belt and the other on his hip. Now _that_ was a familiar expression.

“You told the captains to prepare?” he hissed. Why so angry already? For what? 

“Yes, sir.” Nelyafinwë nodded. “It is- it _cannot_ be Moringotto, can it, father?” 

He was searching for an _“of course not”_ or _“don't be ridiculous”_ , not what he responded with. “I told you before. He attacks us now, he is trying to throw us off balance. Come with me.” 

This wasn't shaping up to be very positive a situation, but Nelyafinwë followed his father anyhow and said nothing as he mounted his beautiful palomino mare, already decorated in armor of her own. Fëanor mounted his own stallion and drew his sword, looking back at Nelyafinwë with eyes that glowed red on their own. 

They had mobilized fast; Moringotto shouldn't have given himself away with the war drums. Nelyafinwë followed his father down the length of the lake and into the land they had only begun to explore, into a piece of the mountains that had not yet been named, or that they did not know the name of. The brothers did not seem to feel so nervous by this Battle, however. When a battalion of orcs came roaring over a hill beyond them their company roared louder, swords raised and horses charging. 

It was a miracle any orc was left in their charge. The force in which their sword cracked down was instantly life ending, if the orcs could be considered living at all. Nelyafinwë didn't want to admit the pleasure of it, the slick cutting of heads, chopping and slicing. The mountains didn't even come close to stopping their crusade onwards. Now that they had tasted a bit of Moringotto's wretched creations, they couldn't wait to destroy more. At least Nelyafinwë couldn't. 

"Onward!" Fëanor howled over the tramping of hooves, raising his sword like a banner, dripping black down the length of the fine blade. 

The Battle grew from dominating to chaotic in a matter of minutes. They descended from the mountains, from what must've been the shortest path through, with thousands of cavalry ready to kill. In the open plains before Angband there was no hindrance to plow through, and plow through they did. 

"Russo!" Makalaurë called to his right, throwing a dagger past his nose just before an orc could charge him from the side. Nelyafinwë nodded his thanks and cleaved an orc's head clean from its body. 

But their father began to separate from them. He was so filled with rage that it poured over into his sword, into the power of his mount, and before Nelyafinwë could make the effort to go after him he was lost in a sea of blood and death. He was, however, able to flag down his brothers. They had done well clearing the field; they could allow the company to go on while they grouped together, untouched by Moringotto's men. 

"Father is-" Curvo started. 

"He's too far ahead," Nelyafinwë confirmed. 

"He's getting surrounded," Tyelko added. "I saw him. He's too far in, they're surrounding him." 

It was then that the horns blew. They weren't Noldor horns, not belonging to any of them — they were horns of their foe, signaling the arrival of a new enemy. 

Nelyafinwë didn’t know if he’d ever seen any creature like this, nor if he would see anything like it again. They rose like mountains around them, footfalls like earthquakes shaking the ground, and the flames that smoked from their bodies was so great it blotted out the stars. With images of burning ships in his mind Nelyafinwë beckoned his brothers on, desperately trying to keep up with Battle before he could lose his father forever. 

“The King,” he called, stopping beside a captain he thought he recognized — but it wasn’t her, it was someone else, everyone was coated too thickly in blood. “Where is the High King?” 

An arrow shot through her shoulder and knocked her off her horse before she could even answer. Nelyafinwë pushed down his nausea and continued after the crowd, not stopping again and not wondering anymore how he’d gotten where he was. It was just the way it had to be — no use dwelling on it. 

The fire monsters had begun to encircle them. The stars no longer lit their way, only the growing red light around them, and a chill settled in Nelyafinwë’s gut. He remembered the conversation he’d had with Findekáno in his room, before he left and before he abandoned him on the other side of the sea. 

_“What if he's killed? The crown will fall to me. I'm next,”_ Nelyafinwë had said. 

_“Nothing can be certain,”_ Finde had assured. But what was assuring about that? Suddenly everything was disorienting, the world fading as though very far away, and Nelyafinwë didn’t think he was really hearing the clattering of swords anymore. His mouth felt dry. _He_ was the next in line. In a line of immortal beings _he_ was next to take the throne, to lead their people absolutely and entirely. As his grandfather had done. Fuck.

_The crown will fall to me. I’m next._

“Men!” Nelyafinwë straightened himself up on his horse, holding his sword aloft, sidestepping an orc and turning to face the crowd. His voice didn’t sound quite right; not his own. “The King is surrounded!” 

He had spotted Fëanor. In a circle of red flame he fought, brilliantly and brightly as though a Simaril shone through him, fighting those beasts tirelessly. But he _would_ tire eventually, and when that happened Nelyafinwë would be High King, and he thought then with quite a bit of clarity that he did _not_ want to be High King. 

“What do we do, my Prince?” That captain he’d confused earlier, this time the person he was thinking of, trotted to his side, shouting. “We cannot break through those- creatures!” 

“And why not?” Nelyafinwë glanced behind him, at the twins coming up fast, both their spears black with blood. Their young faces shone with sweat and blood, and the chill in Nelyafinwë’s stomach set itself on fire inside of him. “Why not! Gather your men, circle the beasts and cut them down! Our King is in danger, let’s relieve him of that!” 

They didn’t hesitate to follow his direction. Their battalions spread out far on the plains, encapsulating the orcs and dark creations in their lines of cavalry, circling and pressing the Battle inwards, crushing it with one great sweep. Nelyafinwë kept his eyes trained on his father as he cut through the center, only half aware of his brothers behind him, trying to feel some of that tireless, effortless spirit he’d gotten from his father. Spirit of Fire, he was called — if Nelyafinwë was heir to _that,_ then he hoped he could feel some of it rush through him. 

“Father!” he called, stabbing through that last orc and hacking down at one of the beasts of fire. Fëanor was still fighting, still strong against all three of those great, ground-shaking giants. His eyes glowed at the Burning of the Ships, and the Kinslaying at Alqulondë, and during his speech in Tirion, but it seemed as though his whole body glowed with light, the Spirit of Fire rising to the surface. 

But he couldn’t get distracted. The brothers plowed through the fire-beasts, all seven of them together taking them down the three giants, sending them crashing to the ground, shockwaves trembling through the broken field. Fëanor dropped his sword. 

“Father!” Nelyafinwë threw himself off his horse, nearly stumbled over the fire-corpses, and just barely caught his father before he collapsed. “Father, my King, are you hurt?” 

Fëanor laughed. It shouldn’t have really been surprising to hear such a thing from him, not after how greatly his mental state had dropped, but still Nelyafinwë swallowed fear. “Hurt?” 

“Yes, father, are you hurt?” Nelyafinwë pleaded, sheathing his sword awkwardly and grabbing his father’s, handing it off to Makalaurë while he dragged Fëanor towards his palomino mare. “Do you feel any injuries? Captain! Ride and get a nurse!” 

“I am fine,” Fëanor grumbled, shoving away from Nelyafinwë as he tried to lift him onto the back of his horse. “I am fine! Let us walk, I have to… let me walk.” 

One of his legs was broken at the ankle and shin, bleeding and pooling into the ground. It didn’t seem like the best idea to walk, but Curvo took Fëanor’s other arm over his shoulders, both of them heaving him up to retreat. Nelyafinwë hadn’t noticed; they’d won completely and totally. The plains before Angband were ruined, decimated entirely. 

“We won,” he said, if that could be some comfort to Fëanor. “My King, we won.” 

Their men formed a wall around them, the woman-captain that had been his grandfather’s bursting out from the side towards the mountains, towards the lake, doing as Nelyafinwë said without hesitation. 

“The first win of many,” Fëanor replied with certainty. Nelyafinwë wondered how he could be so optimistic in the state he was, but perhaps it was simply his hatred of Moringotto. Nelyafinwë thought that would certainly keep him going, anyways. 

“We should rest,” Curvo suggested, not waiting for their father to say anything else. “Father, please. You are hurt.” 

Fëanor lowered his head, which was both not an answer and a concerning response, at that. But still they carried him, far off the field, into the beginnings of the mountain path they didn’t know the name of, towards their new home. The stars, over where the air was clear and not clouded with smoke, were bright and guiding, beckoning them on. Nelyafinwë thought Findekáno would probably make some comment about it being a perfect work of poetry — those damn Vanyaran roots, definitely. _“Stars like smatterings of freckles,”_ he’d say, _“across your face and across the sky.’_

“Set me down,” Fëanor breathed. They had only just gotten to the more dense part of the mountain path, where they had first made collision with the battalions of orcs. Fëanor was breathing heavy, feet dragging, and when Nelyafinwë caught his eyes he thought they looked foggy through the red glow. 

Curvo and Nelyafinwë set him down against the largest piece of rock they could find, against which Fëanor immediately slumped and sighed. Something rattled in that breath, something deadly, and Nelyafinwë tried not to pay attention to how dented and covered in holes his breastplate was. 

“Father,” Curvo cried. “A healer is coming, you’re going to-” 

“Die, Curufinwë, I’m going to die.” Fëanor lifted his head and let his hair fall, bloodied, against the rock. “I’m going to die and I never got to kill that monster.” 

Nelyafinwë crouched at his side and thought about glancing back at his brothers, but he didn’t think he could meet any of their eyes. Curvo began to weep. “We will kill him. We’ll get the Silmarils, father, we’ll avenge grandfather’s death.” 

“Always- know just what to say, huh?” Fëanor made a noise that may have been a laugh. His eyes were very red, then, and Nelyafinwë could feel the heat radiating off him. “Curse that bastard! Ugh,” he cringed, dropping his head. 

“Save your energy,” Tyelko keened. “A nurse is coming.” 

“Nurse,” Fëanor spat. “A nurse cannot save what that Dark Creature has done to me. Fucking- _curse_ him, Moringotto!” 

The stars didn’t seem so bright anymore, or maybe they were too bright, but Nelyafinwë thought everything looked a little too dark and blurry. The world was distancing itself again, pulling away, and he had to lean forward and grasp his father’s hand to keep himself tethered even a bit. 

“We are going to kill him,” Nelyafinwë assured, but the assurance still felt empty, not his voice. “We’ll avenge you.” 

“You had damn better!” Fëanor rose up a bit, then cried out and retreated back to leaning against the rock. “All I can do is curse now — curse- curse the Dark Vala, and may he forever suffer- suffer from his- actions!” 

He looked as though he would say something else, for a moment, but he was breathing very heavy and nothing came out. His eyes shut, and just that movement made the brothers move in closer, panicked at how quickly this was happening. Someone beyond them shouted about the nurse arriving, but it was too late, they knew it was. Fëanor was going to die from the moment he stepped off the battlefield; nothing was going to change that. 

“Father,” Nelyafinwë pleaded anyway, grasping his father’s hand in both of his, squeezing it tight. “Father, we’re not ready for- not yet, you can’t leave us-” 

Fëanor opened his eyes again, and this time there was no cloudiness there, no doubt. They glowed. Set on fire. He didn’t speak again, he wouldn’t again, and with a sigh he looked up to the stars. Nelyafinwë had been waiting for another sigh, another breath, but none came, and his hand slackened where he gripped it. 

“No.” Nelyafinwë shook his head, lifting his hand, staring desperately into his eyes; but they’d faded, no longer glowing, a simple glassy silver-hazel. Dead eyes. The same way his grandfather’s had looked. 

“Russo,” Makalaurë cooed, setting a hand on his shoulder, trying to pull him away, if only a bit. Fëanor’s hand was growing hot, too hot to hold onto, and so Nelyafinwë let him go and stood hurriedly. Curvo had to be pulled away by Tyelko, who had to hold him still as he sobbed to keep him from going back. 

Fëanor’s body was turning to ash _._ His hand _had_ been hot because his body was burning, setting itself on fire as his Spirit left, smoking like the fire-beasts and like the Ships. Nelyafinwë tried bringing his brothers back more, for the heat of the flame was so suffocating it stung the eyes. Most of them complied, backing with him, but Curvo had begun to scream, trying to break free from Tyelko’s grip. 

It wasn’t long before there was nothing left of him but smoke. For what seemed like hours they followed the smoke and ash that had been lifted into the air, sliding around trees and through the mountains, up into the distant stars until he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sad cowboy emoji here


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HAHAH spam time babey!!!!!!! 
> 
> i'm american so quarantine never ended for me and now this google doc is about 200 pages long it's time for some updates :))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this baby's short BUT the next one's dumb long so
> 
> aftermath of Feanor's death, Maglor makes a niche little song you definitely don't know yep very niche

The world had never been so silent.

In Aman the Trees had creaked, and the creatures in their branches had chittered and chirped at all hours of the day. Wherever Yavanna went, life and light and sound followed.

But she was absent in Arda, and her Trees were dead. The stars provided no life, no sound and holes for creatures. Only light. Light to hide from, light to covet when hiding got too sad.

For days time passed as though in the Void, without event and without emotion. At least, for Nelyafinwë it did; Curvo spent all hours hunting down the rest of the orcs with Tyelko and the twins, constantly on the spectrum of furious or sobbing. Nelyafinwë couldn't handle it that way, he had no choice. The moment they returned to camp everyone looked to him, called him King, and asked for guidance.

"Pull the camp in tighter," he commanded. His voice wasn't his, it was empty, hollow, too rough. "Whoever we can spare will begin cutting down trees to form a wall on our eastern side."

"Yes, my King," one of them said, and Nelyafinwë wanted to vomit.

The moment the soldiers were gone, leaving their pestering behind, Nelyafinwë went after Makalaurë and entered his tent without calling first.

"Rus-" Makalaurë squeaked, turning, and he was sitting silent, tears running down his face but not making any noise. "What is it?"

Nelyafinwë said nothing as he sat on the edge of his bed, a sad thing that may as well have been a cot. For a moment neither of them said anything. The camp outside was bustling; they had won, despite the loss, and there was much to do. Nelyafinwë couldn't hear any of it, it didn't register.

"Can you-" Nelyafinwë started, then cleared his throat when his voice sounded too wrong. Nothing changed when he spoke again, he still sounded small, not himself. "Can you play something for me?"

Makalaurë didn't seem to know how to answer. He was just as confused as Nelyafinwë, just as dazed, and for too long a moment he sat silent, trying to understand what his brother was saying. 

“It’s so quiet,” Nelyafinwë went on, not able to stand the silence. “I think- I think it would do us all some good to- to hear you.” 

_ “Us all” _ didn’t make any sense — it was just the two of them — but still Makalaurë complied, moving slowly as he sat up and wiped his face clear of tears. His harp sat, lonely, beside his bed, one edge of the frame singed from the fire it’d sailed through. Makalaurë bent over and took it up as carefully he would a newborn, cradling it against his chest as he tuned it, the first sound Nelyafinwë could actually  _ hear. _

“What do you want?” Makalaurë murmured. His voice was still so smooth, so easy through the Song, but it no longer felt so powerful. Small, he was, like how Nelyafinwë sounded to himself. “To hear, I mean.” 

He hadn’t put any thought to it. What  _ did _ he want to hear? Usually Makalaurë had something in mind, something he’d been thinking about that he wanted to test out, to try on unsuspecting victims. But he didn’t start playing on his own this time, he was asking Nelyafinwë, and that’s what made Nelyafinwë sure he wasn’t well, either. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Uh. One of yours- I suppose, um, if you have anything- new?” 

Makalaurë paused for a long, long while, thinking and tuning. When he was finished he strummed through once, a gentle strum but sending the air around them ringing through their ears. “I do,” he said. “But I don’t think you’ll like it.” 

“I like everything you play,” Nelyafinwë said, leaning forward, anticipatory after hearing his sound again. And it was true, what he said — Nelyafinwë didn’t think it was possible to dislike anything his brother wrote and created. So Makalaurë nodded, strummed through once more, and began small, testing the waters. 

It wasn’t much like anything else he’d created. Their father had overly encouraged his great pieces, works of spectacle and complexity, so it wasn’t very often that Makalaurë went after something he truly wished to play. And Nelyafinwë  _ knew  _ what he liked to play, since he was the only one Makalaurë ever confided in besides their mother, and still this piece was different. He leaned towards slow songs before, but this was rather reflective, more intentional in slowness. It wasn’t sluggish, not tired, but energetic in a strange, hidden sort of way. Nelyafinwë would not know how to explain it to anyone if they asked — it simply  _ was, _ existing uniquely. 

When Makalaurë finished the notes were still twirling in the air, the Song intertwined with what he had just done, approving of the creation and taking it into itself. Nelyafinwë felt a rush of energy as the sound faded away again, and the bustle outside the tent faded back in. 

“I-” Makalaurë cleared his throat. “I am unsure of the second measure. It doesn’t seem…” 

“I loved it,” Nelyafinwë breathed, getting to his feet, and somehow his voice seemed like his again, though more powerful. “What is it called?” 

“‘Farewell’,” he whispered. His eyes wouldn’t meet Nelyafinwë’s, tuning his harp just slightly.  _ “Namárië.” _

“You continue to amaze me, Káno.” Nelyafinwë leaned over to hug him from where he sat, though awkward as it was. “I believe Tyelko is bringing back lunch, make sure you get out of this tent before he returns, yes? I will not have you holed up here.” 

Makalaurë managed a twinge of a smile and finally met his brother’s eyes, bright and swirling brown like their mother’s. “Okay.” 

Nelyafinwë left without another word. He couldn’t have his people putting together their camp alone, could he? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen i know maglor didn't write Namarie... BUT what a fun headcanon am i right?


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay before you read I want to say I'm sorry I didn't realize how long this chapter is!
> 
> Anyway: the twins and Tyelko suspect some natives, Nelyo gets a Very Sus letter, and honestly rip Curvo's mental health man I'm sorry

Starlight was hardly the best lighting to work under, but it was all they had, and it would do. 

For nearly two straight days Nelyafinwë directed the small camp along the river, building up walls of strong oak Tyelko and the twins chopped from their border on the forest. There was still a strong feeling of being watched, from those woods, but Nelyafinwë had hundreds of things to worry about before that. 

“They’re the natives here,” Pityo had tried telling him, digging a rock he’d found from his pocket — there were carvings in the face, that was his argument. Nelyafinwë pocketed the rock and told him he’d look into it. He didn’t have any plans to, but Pityo didn’t need to know that. Maybe when they put up a good enough defense and fortified the camp a bit,  _ maybe _ then he’d send some scouts into the forest to look. But at the moment, he didn’t think he could do much else than what was in front of him. 

Their camp, which he decided to simply call Mithrim (that’s what Fëanor had called it, anyway), stretched mostly along one side of the lake. It was hardly a strategic location — mountains rose up in their front and back, and the lake didn’t connect to anything major, so they wouldn’t be able to escape by sea. So two days of fortifying it was, and Nelyafinwë thought he had never been so tired when they finished that last wall on their eastern side, between them and Moringotto. He settled by the fire that was most often lit in the circle between his brother’s tents, lounging on the only blanket he’d brought from Tirion and watching Huan gnaw on a stag horn. 

“My King,” someone called, a captain surely. Nelyafinwë looked up to the man standing on the edge of the circle of tents, too nervous to enter. In his hands was a letter — a letter? — and so Nelyafinwë hauled himself to his feet and stretched. 

“What is it?” He glanced back at Huan once before walking to the messenger, hands clasped behind him. If he was going to pretend to have successfully taken on the whole  _ High King _ thing, then he would act the part. “Who’s the letter from?” 

The messenger suddenly looked like he would have a stroke. “It is- well, sir, we have been patrolling near the mountains, you know, and- well, there was- well, a small group of orcs or something or other, and- we struck them dead sir, there is nothing to worry about- but they carried a banner, and a letter. Sir.” The messenger stuck out his hand with the letter, fine, soft-looking paper bound in leather, wax-stamped with Moringotto’s seal. The same one that’d been imprinted on the dagger in his grandfather’s chest. Nelyafinwë swiped it from his hand before he could drop it, as he looked to do with all that shaking. 

“It is from Moringotto?” Nelyafinwë turned it over in his hands and leaned back, feeling along the soft paper. Skin. It was skin, but from what creature he didn’t know. 

“Yes, my King.” 

The messenger was still standing there. Nelyafinwë glanced up and met his eyes, not knowing  _ why _ he was still there. “You are dismissed, soldier, thank you.” 

He departed without pause. Nelyafinwë took a deep breath, pushing down the  _ my King _ s and  _ Sir _ s, and started for his own tent while tugging apart the leather binding. Makalaurë sat on his bed, but he was only acutely aware of him as he stood there, peeling the wax seal, bracing himself. A  _ letter _ from Moringotto? What did he possibly have to say? 

“Russo?” Makalaurë set something aside, his harp perhaps, but Nelyafinwë was already reading. The world was pulling away again, as much as he’d tried to stop it, and everything was muffled, distant. This letter… 

“Treaty!” Nelyafinwë roared, not able to stop himself, flattening out the letter on the elevated planks of wood that acted as his desk. But that truly was what it said; a  _ treaty. _ They wanted a  _ treaty. _ For what? For peace? To taunt them, offer the Silmarils and slay them all for trusting them? 

“Treaty? Russo-” Makalaurë stood, going to his side and peering over his shoulder to read the swirly script. It was very nice penmanship, that much Nelyafinwë could appreciate, though the irony of his father’s Tengwar being used by these- these-  _ murderers _ was not lost on him. 

“They want to meet,” Nelyafinwë breathed and stood back, though not straight. He couldn’t stand straight up in his tent. “They want to meet, Káno. Am I missing something here?” 

Makalaurë was poring over the letter, too, studying every  _ tehtar _ . His eyes were narrowed, unsure, then altogether confused, standing to look up at his brother. “They want to meet. Personally.” 

“It’s signed by him,” Nelyafinwë scoffed, gesturing lamely at the letter, crossing his arms. “By Sauron. He wrote this himself, he wants to meet personally.” 

Neither of them said anything for a minute. More than a minute, even more than a few. What was there to do about this? It was real, the letter truly came from the Enemy. But there was no truth within it, there could not be. Nelyafinwë would not be so foolish to trust a single word that exited any dark-thing’s mouth. He couldn’t ignore it. He wouldn’t ignore it, he couldn’t, he had to take advantage of this somehow. Somehow. 

“Refuse,” Makalaurë suggested. “They are not stupid, Russo, they know we know it’s a trick. He’s trying to get you out on the open field, kill you where you stand like our father-” 

“I will not let that happen.” Nelyafinwë uncrossed his arms and clasped his hands behind him, as though he could stop his own death from happening with sheer force of will. “I will not leave you and the rest of them to fend for yourselves. Tyelko was right when he said I’d been trained like a dog, this has always been what I’m meant to do. I will not leave you behind, Káno, do you understand?” 

“I understand,” he said, “but you  _ cannot _ go out there. It won’t matter what you allow to happen or not if they send out an army. They’ll  _ kill _ you, Russo, they intend to kill all of us.” 

Nelyafinwë chewed his lip and cursed under his breath. “Then I’ll-” he started, breaking off, beginning again. “Then I’ll come with a bigger army. We’ll send a large force, Káno, I don’t have to follow any of his rules for meeting. We’ll catch them off-guard, crush them like we  _ just _ did, and I’ll return here having solved this petty matter.” 

“And what if you don’t?” 

“I will!” Nelyafinwë threw up his hands and scoffed. “I will come back, Káno!” 

“And what if you don’t?” Makalaurë repeated, louder, making his ears ring. “What if you don’t and I’m left with the crown? I’m not a dog like you, father hardly cared to even  _ speak _ to me, much less teach me to rule! He didn’t allow  _ me _ to sit in council meetings and visit grandfather so often! Tyelko doesn’t listen to me like he does you, and Curvo’s only ever resented me like everyone else, and I’m not as caring with Moryo as you are! And the twins- they’re- they love  _ you, _ Russo, they only ever liked me because Ammë did. I can’t- I can’t-” 

“Káno,” Nelyafinwë huffed, taking his brother’s shoulders. But his eyes were glassy, pooling with tears, so he pressed him into a hug and held a hand against the back of his head. “Everything is going to be fine.” 

“Yeah?” he hissed, but it held no weight. His hands fisted into his tunic, as dirty as it was. “Father’s dead. And grandfather. We abandoned Ammë and I had to leave Fëaranya. I don’t see how that’s fine.” 

“We’re alive,” Nelyafinwë pointed out, though it was fairly obvious. “We survived Alqualondë and crossing the sea and the Burning,  _ and _ the Battle. We have to think about other things. You can’t dwell on who we left behind, okay? We’re here and we’re alive.” 

Makalaurë sniffed. “How can you be so positive?” 

Instantly Nelyafinwë thought of what he’d told Findekáno before he left.  _ “ _ _ I'm trying to help everyone, I'm trying to be strong for them.” _ And he was. _ “My brothers, they're- they look to me for guidance.” _ And they did! What was he supposed to do, fall apart? He couldn’t, he didn’t have a choice. 

“We all have to be strong now,” he said instead. “Groomed like a prize-winning dog, isn’t that what Tyelko said?” 

Makalaur ë scoffed and pulled back from the hug, wiping his eyes with his sleeve before Nelyafinwë could catch them. “After you reacted badly to that drug and got ill? Yes, that’s exactly what he said.” 

Nelyafinwë cracked a smile at that, not by the memory but how distant it was. He’d been a child, it felt like, though he’d been well into his adult years. An odd thing, time. “Cheer up. We’re about to kick Moringotto’s ass for a second time, yeah?” 

“Don’t  _ yeah _ me,” he huffed, grabbing his harp and turning to the door. “I feel like it’ll be followed with a  _ little pup. _ I’m not a child.” 

“Nor are the Ambarussa,” Nelyafinwë pointed out, going after him, lifting the flap of the tent and letting it drop. The letter would stay on his desk for now. “Why, would you like me to baby you, too?” 

Makalaurë whipped around and there were flames in his hair, glowing, lighting himself on fire. “Abso _ lutely _ not.” 

Nelyafinwë raised his hands, smirking, intending to respond with a tease, something to annoy him further, when a hand grasped his arm tightly, panicked. He jolted as an immediate reaction, turning with his hands up, heart suddenly beating fast.

“Russo,” Moryo cried. Lords, he looked freaked — eyes wide and eyebrows creased, face more red than usual and lips pulled back into a scowl. “It's Curvo. Well- it's- the baby!”

It was hardly an explanation, but Nelyafinwë knew what he was saying immediately. “Alyare is-  _ already? _ It's too early!”

“Yes, we know!” Moryo spat, taking hold of Nelyafinwë's arm again. “Come on, quickly!”

Makalaurë followed behind them, as fast as he could, and Nelyafinwë took his hand, too, pulling them along. Moryo looked ready to faint, stopping not too far away at Alyare's tent. The groans inside sent that already-familiar chill settling in Nelyafinwë's stomach again, sending him back into a panic similar to Moryo's.

“Nurses, there are nurses here?” he started, taking hold of Moryo's shoulders. “Is she safe?”

“I- I think so!” Moryo shook his head, unsure. “There are nurses, Curvo got them already, he's in there!”

Nelyafinwë let him go to pace back and forth. His hand went to his face, rubbing his temples, massaging his eyes, his jaw, trying to think of anything but  _ ‘this child will be grandparentless’ _ , and instead thought of his nephew, a nephew, his first one. The first great-grandchild of Finwë, as far as he knew! No, no, that wasn't right — Turukáno had a daughter, a very young one, how old was she? How did she fare, abandoned with her parents on the shores of Aman? It didn't matter, not now, there was a nephew coming.

“My King!”

Nelyafinwë stopped where he stood, wanting to scream at how quickly he reacted to  _ King _ and turned to face the captain. He really should learn her name, this one, she'd been there at Finwë's death, though hysterical. “What?”

“Prince Tyelkormo found something odd in the forest. He sent me to deliver the message.”

Nelyafinwë waited, then glanced around at his brothers that'd turned to hear. “Well, then, go on!”

“There are people,” the captain said, after a moment of hesitation. He was breaking some rule, there, with the deliverance of royal messages out in the open. He didn't care, but she did; she'd worked for the last two Kings, proper Kings. “People in the trees, he said. Natives here.”

The carved stone in Nelyafinwë's pocket seemed to burn. “Natives?”

“The Sindar,” the captain went on. “Grey-elves under Elu Thingol's rule, we believe. My King.”

Nelyafinwë chewed his lip. Then Alyare in the tent let out a scream and Curvo was shouting and Nelyafinwë decided he couldn't do it all at once. “Tell Prince Tyelkormo to write a report on it. Or Prince Pityafinwë or Prince Telufinwë, it doesn't matter to me. Tell them I will look into this later, and that they should return to Mithrim immediately. You are dismissed,” he added, thinking of that messenger. The captain bowed, deeply and straight-backed, met his eyes once more, and turned on her heel.

“Elu Thingol?” Makalaurë had his arms crossed, distracted by the time Nelyafinwë had turned back around. “These are his lands, aren't they?”

Nelyafinwë looked far across the lake, towards the mountains where his father had burned to ash and the towering gates of Angband. He couldn't imagine any ruler  _ wanting _ these lands, but if Thingol truly wanted them then that was a problem. Another problem to face later. After he returned from his false-meeting with Moringotto's Lieutenant.

Curvo burst from the tent and stopped a few feet out. The movement had startled all of them, and when Nelyafinwë turned to look a chill swept through him. Curvo’s hands were soaked, dripping blood, and his tunic was ruined with the same red. He was sweating, face long and downturned, hair slicked back. His eyes, the same icy-steel he shared with Nelyafinwë and their father, were not quite there.

“Curvo,” Nelyafinwë breathed, stepping forward and grasping his shoulders, looking down and trying to get him to look up. “Curvo, are you alright? Is Alyare alright?”

Curvo let out a choked sob the moment Nelyafinwë had said her name, and for a moment he wished he hadn't said anything at all. “She- she-” he tried, trailing off, raising his bloody hands to the arms on his shoulders. “She- may not- the nurse said she…”

It wasn't an answer. Nelyafinwë glanced up at Makalaurë and Moryo, both of them staring at the back of Curvo. “The nurse said she what, Curvo? What is wrong?”

“The- cord-” he choked out, “it's wrapped- around his neck, they- they- they have to- ngh-”

Curvo turned and collapsed, vomiting and tipping over. Nelyafinwë wrapped his arms tighter around him and lifted him up, brushing his hair away from his face. Moryo had turned away and faced the lake, but Makalaurë had taken a step forward, one hand extended.

“It's okay, it's okay,” Nelyafinwë cooed, hauling up Curvo more so he could press him against his chest, stroking his sweaty hair back, holding him as he'd seen their mother do to his younger brothers. “I have you, it's alright. It's going to be okay.”

“I can't lose her,” he sobbed, clinging onto Nelyafinwë with blood-slick hands. “Not- not after- after father and-”

“Don't think about that now,” Nelyafinwë cut off, lowering his head a bit. “You have a son coming, isn't that amazing? A baby, Curvo, we'll have a nephew to spoil rotten. You know my dumb little rabbit toy, the one I had as a baby that Ammë sewed herself? I brought it, I have it with me for some reason, I'll give it to him.”

Curvo sniffled in the way that told Nelyafinwë he was only calming him a bit, but a bit was good anyway. “Okay.”

“We'll make a hundred new toys, too,” Nelyafinwë hurried to say. “Horses with wheels and little stuffed dogs, what do you think? And when we get this camp built more officially we can make a little room just for him, a nursery, somewhere we can put all the things we'll spoil him with.” 

Alyare screamed and Nelyafinwë could hardly get his hand over Curvo's ear fast enough. Clearly he'd heard, though, because he let out another ruined sob and began to collapse again, knees giving out. Nelyafinwë held him up.

He meant to continue going on about the baby, about his nephew, but the camp had gone completely, frighteningly silent. The tent that had recently been so loud was quiet and still. It wasn't the world falling away again, distancing itself from any noise; it truly was so quiet, so devoid of air. Like the Void.

It was too long that it stayed that way. Nelyafinwë wished to continue holding Curvo tight, comforting him wherever he could, but the moment he opened his mouth to speak a baby's cry struck the world like lightning.

Curvo sprung up, turning round instantly as Nelyafinwë held him steady. The flap of the tent opened and out came that shockingly loud crying, a nurse bloodied from head to toe holding him. The baby hardly looked like one at all — he hadn't been washed yet of the blood and everything else — but there were little baby hands, and kicking baby feet, and Curvo lurched forward again.

“Your highness,” the nurse said, a murmur that didn't seem to reach Curvo's ears. He stared down at his child, reaching for him wordlessly. The nurse handed him over, a screaming little bundle, and Curvo let out another sob. 

“Ah,” he breathed, setting a hand under his tiny head, inspecting him for anything worrying. But he was perfect, a perfect little baby, if only a little small. “Tyelperinquar, I think. You- do you like that?” 

Tyelperinquar continued to scream. Nelyafinwë stepped forward to peer over his shoulder, trying to remember where he’d stuffed his old toy rabbit in the few bags he’d managed to bring. It was hardly the thing to think about, though, so he focused again and moved around Curvo to face the nurse, who hadn’t yet been dismissed. 

“How is the mother?” he asked, clasping his hands behind him. “Alyare. Has she lived?” 

The nurse didn’t seem to want to meet his eyes, having to peer up at him. “Yes, your majesty, she lives. But her condition is not hopeful.” 

Nelyafinwë glanced back at Curvo entrancing himself with his son, tiny Tyelperinquar, and turned back to the nurse. “May I see her, then?” 

The nurse shifted where she stood and glanced back quickly at the tent. Her hands wouldn’t keep still, moving all while she tried to meet Nelyafinwë’s eyes. “It is very messy, my King, I do not think it would please you to see, sir.” 

He had seen enough blood to last a lifetime, even as infinite as Quendi lifetimes were. But he had made a promise with Alyare, and he intended to keep it, so he took another small step towards the nurse just to prod her more. “Is she awake, ma’am, or am I not able to speak with her?” 

“No, no, she is awake, sir.” The nurse shook her head hurriedly. 

“So then why may I not speak with my sister?” Nelyafinwë inclined his chin, the way he’d seen his father do when he tormented those under his control, the way Finwë had gotten captains and advisors to do what he wanted. The nurse looked like she’d faint right there in the entrance of the tent. Her face was bright red — could she breathe?

“You may do whatever pleases you, my King!” she squeaked. “I have not meant to barr you from entering, your majesty, Lady Alyare is awake, still. You may enter if you wish. Sir.”

Nelyafinwë made a move to sweep right past her, but stopped for just a moment to whisper to the nurse, “You will call Alyare by her proper title, ma’am. She is Princess Alyare in her marriage to my brother, do you understand?” 

“Yes, my King, I am deeply sorry!” 

That was enough torment. Nelyafinwë passed by into the tent, lifting the flap only as much as he needed to slip though. The air inside was hot and thick with the stench of blood and afterbirth, and almost sent him stumbling back outside. There wasn’t much inside and it was the same as every other makeshift-shelter they had scraped together in Mithrim: a desk of rough-cut, planked wood and a bed of similar wood, padded with blankets or cloaks or whatever they’d managed to find. Alyare was draped in what may have once been a white blanket, a sheet really, covering herself up to the neck and propped up on rolled clothes. 

“Alyare,” Nelyafinwë called, voice low and careful, and the remaining nurse in the tent turned from the desk in surprise. But Nelyafinwë did not greet her, he only moved slowly to the side of the bed, by Alyare’s head. Her eyes had creaked open just a bit, the bright blue that had shone so brilliantly under the stars before now dark and glassy. 

“Rus,” she muttered, lifting a hand. Nelyafinwë took it immediately, getting to his knees beside the bed, brushing her hair back over her head. 

“Your son is safe,” he assured, first, and a long breath of relief escaped Alyare. He knew that’s all she wanted to know, he had enough younger brothers to be used to the process, the needs and wants of mothers. “Curvo has him. Tyelperinquar.” 

“Tyelpe,” she cooed, closing her eyes for a moment, listening for the cries outside the tent. Curvo had begun to pace, judging on how oddly distorted the noise was. 

“I have come,” Nelyafinwë began again, trying to get her attention back, “to assure you of my promise.” 

Alyare turned her head on the makeshift pillow and looked him up and down, possibly trying to remember. 

“I said I will keep you and your child safe for as long as you and he live,” he explained. The realization poured over her, remembering, and Nelyafinwë blinked back any threat of tears. “I am… I am sorry I hadn’t been able to keep you safe, sister.” 

The flap of the tent rustled but did not open. Whispers outside grew to hissed and spat words and the flap rustled but, again, didn’t open. Alyare pat Nelyafinwë’s arm with her hand, eyes closing, breathing evening out. Whatever that meant would stay with him for a long, long while, but at that moment he took it as acceptance and stood. Her hand slipped from his and tucked back under the sheet, cold in the lakeside air. 

But Moringotto’s letter still sat on his desk. He couldn’t linger here for long if he wanted to quell the treaty annoyance, so he slipped from the tent, hoping he could find all his brothers quickly. 

The whispering had been a good sign — Tyelko, Pityo, and Telvo had returned from their trip in the woods and, though they were covered in mud and looked quite disheveled, Nelyafinwë was glad to not have to look for them. Makalaurë had stayed exactly where he’d been before, Moryo beside him averting his eyes from everyone, and Curvo was trying to keep Tyelko from touching the baby. 

“Tyelko,” Nelyafinwë crossed his arms and stepped further from the tent behind him, distancing himself from that heavy air. Tyelko turned from Tyelperinquar, ready to hiss at Nelyafinwë too.

“Russo!” he exclaimed instead, raising his hands. “You did get my message, didn’t you?” 

Nelyafinwë hadn’t meant to scoff. “Yes, but I was a little bit preoccupied. Come on, we have to-” 

“You told me to write a report!” Tyelko scoffed back, his more intense. “A report? Do you know how important this is? I saw some of Thingol’s people, he can  _ help  _ us, give us supplies to build up a fort!” 

As if Elu Thingol would give them  _ anything, _ Nelyafinwë thought, but just shook his head to avoid egging him on. “There are more pressing matters. We must speak in private, the seven of us and none else. Curvo, I know this is asking a lot but  _ please _ give Tyelperinquar to the nurses and Alyare, just for a moment.” 

Curvo raised his head and cocked his head as if he didn’t hear what he’d said. “Give him up?” 

“For less than an hour, Curvo,” Nelyafinwë bargained. “Half of that. A half hour. It will be quick, but I  _ must _ talk to you without distraction.” 

The nurse still standing nervous at the tent stepped forward, but Curvo turned away, holding Tyelperinquar close. Nelyafinwë sighed and stepped towards him too, reaching out, and in some strange understanding Curvo pressed a kiss to the baby’s little head and handed him over. Maybe it was Nelyafinwë’s noticeable anxiousness that made him comply, or maybe he had just decided to be obedient for once, but Nelyafinwë gave Tyelperinquar carefully to the nurse and decided not to dwell on it. 

“What’s the matter?” Tyelko had started backing away towards their circle of tents, absently tapping the hilt of the dagger at his belt. Nelyafinwë didn’t answer for a moment, catching his breath, trying to focus again, walking past him and towards his tent, not stopping even as Tyelko called. He pulled the flap of his tent aside, half-thinking for a second that the letter wouldn’t be there, that he’d just imagined it, but there it was, unfurled and waiting on his desk. He snatched it and walked back out, and by then, everyone had circled the fire. 

“Well?” Tyelko threw up his hands. “Care to explain, Russo?” 

The fire lit up the letter brilliantly, the stars overhead giving nothing but a gentle glow. It was much easier to read it there, at the popping firepit, in a red glow. That scrawl — Sauron’s handwriting, beautifully poisonous — shone bloody red as if freshly written. The seal stuck to the back of the skins, Moringotto’s seal, and in the newly brightened light it was hard for any of the brothers to miss. 

“A letter-” Moryo growled, sitting up more where he’d lounged, “-from  _ Moringotto?” _

“Yes,” Nelyafinwë confirmed. “It is written by his Lieutenant and signed by them both.” 

If the seal hadn’t gotten them all interested, then  _ that _ certainly did. Huan huffed and turned his head away, gnawing on his stag horn to ignore them. 

“What’s it say?” Telvo tweeted. 

“They want to meet.” Nelyafinwë looked back down at the swirling Tengwar and pictured Moringotto’s Lieutenant smirking as he wrote it, joking with his Master about how foolish the Fëanorians were. “To talk of a treaty. Moringotto even offered to bargain with a Silmaril.” 

All six of them rose up at that, Tyelko leaning against Huan startling him greatly, the twins pleading him not to meet, Curvo spitting hatred. Makalaurë muttered something, some swear probably, and Moryo grew as red-faced as the fire. 

“I plan to meet!” Nelyafinwë had to shout over them. They quieted, though reluctantly, six fighting voices. “I plan to meet at the location suggested with myself and a force of fifty. We will catch them off-guard, destroy them like we just did, and I will return in a couple days time. We will not plead peace with traitorous snakes.” 

That wasn’t enough. “And what if they catch  _ us _ off guard?” Curvo rasped. “What if they come with a larger force and overwhelm us?” 

“The meeting location isn’t far,” Nelyafinwë said. “We will retreat if their forces are too great.” 

They looked between each other, over the fire, through the flames, unsure. Nelyafinwë felt that same heat in his chest from the Battle before, when Fëanor had been surrounded — he would  _ not _ allow the Enemy to gain the upper hand, nor would he allow him to frighten his brothers. 

“I will return,” he pressed. “Do you think me incapable of following a straightforward plan as this?” 

As much as they teased and jabbed, none of them would insult him in such a way. He knew they wouldn’t; they were convinced, in some sense of the word, and Nelyafinwë would have to take it. 

“Good.” He rolled the scroll back up, clasped his hands behind his back, and faced them with certainty. “Wash before dinner. I will leave in the morning.” 

They had nothing more to add, nothing else to plead. Nelyafinwë turned and retreated into his tent.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, kudos, whatever floats your boat!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A last bit of respite before Nelyo gets yoinked by Sauron sorry y'all

The water in Lake Mithrim must’ve been the coldest thing Nelyafinwë had ever felt. Colder than the chill that threatened to never leave the pit of his stomach, colder than Ñolofinwë’s angriest stare, colder than the Void. 

Its waters were bottomless and horrifyingly black, anything past chest-deep a bit of a gamble. At least, that’s what he told the Ambarussa when they waded in after him, already shivering. Tyelko had had to drag Curvo from Tyelperinquar and Alyare, practically throwing him into the water, but when he finally started cleaning something seemed to lighten off his shoulders and brighten his eyes. 

None of them had lasted very long in the waters, preferring to wash off the dirt and blood, douse the hair, and run. It was Makalaurë, unsurprisingly, that spent the most time washing — he had the longest hair, and took the best care of it. Soon they were wrapped in layers and layers of clothing by the fire, shivering but in better spirits than before. A couple rabbits roasted over a spit, cooking slowly and filling the air with aromas of meat and whatever spices Tyelko and the twins had scavenged in the woods. It was earthy, a rich smell. It was meditative enough that Nelyafinwë jolted when Makalaurë spoke. 

“That nurse had a thing for you,” he said, hands raised to the flames. Red flickered in his eyes, into his dark hair, making everything look a little sleeker. “The one you sent into a panic.” 

_ That _ nurse? He had frightened her, terribly so. “She was shaking, not fawning, Káno.” 

“You think a little authority isn’t attractive?” Tyelko added in, hearing the conversation and not wanting to pass up his chance to tease Nelyafinwë. “She was bright red the whole time, she couldn’t look you in the eye!” 

Nelyafinwë could feel  _ himself _ going red. “That’s hardly evidence.” 

“Evidence,” Moryo grumbled. “You think you’re real scientific when you say that, don’t you? She was into you, plain and simple.” 

Had she been? Nelyafinwë lifted his head and peered over towards where Alyare’s tend laid, just to the side of Curvo’s, where they both were. The nurse in subject was still standing outside — How? It was so cold — looking around as if she were a patrol. But Nelyafinwë had been staring too long; she caught his eye and jumped, going red to the tips of her ears and looking away. 

It had been a long while, it seemed, since  _ anyone _ had paid attention to him that way. There had been conflict close to home for so long that it hadn’t crossed his mind once, that he’d already started to leave those thoughts behind. That one nurse, small and mousy-haired and seeming so  _ terrified _ of him actually  _ liked _ him and everything about whatever romantic life he’d had was flooding back. 

“We won’t say anything,” Makalaurë said, leaning back against one of the logs around the fire. “No one needs to know if you want to have a secret meeting, Rus.” 

“No,” he breathed. “No, no, I can’t do that!” 

“Just saying!” Makalaurë raised his hands. “You never married, you’re not bound to anyone.” 

Nelyafinwë glanced at the nurse again but she couldn’t look anywhere near him, she wouldn’t. He’d never been with a woman, he’d never been with  _ anyone, _ he didn’t even know if he’d want to be with her. Did he? She was pretty. But he couldn’t imagine it, not without feeling… odd. Wrong. It didn’t feel right in any sense of the word. 

“It’s an obvious abuse of my power,” Nelyafinwë said instead. It seemed like the better option. “It’s why we could never court within the lower classes. It’s an abuse of power.” 

“You’re not taking her by  _ force,” _ Tyelko scoffed. “Besides, I don’t think a woman of  _ any _ class would turn you down, Russo.” 

Nelyafinwë was acutely aware of his foot starting to tap, of his lip-chewing, trying instead to rationalize this. How had he gotten dragged into this? Did they really wish so badly to set him up with a woman? It made him wonder how many times they had discussed it behind his back, wondering when the eldest would marry, and only sent him deeper into a spiral of painful and awkward memories. There had been that one girl, the one he’d long forgotten the name of, that threatened to break into his room at night when he turned her down. 

“Oh, look what you’ve done!” Moryo gestured wildly, and thank the Powers that he’d been so loud. Nelyafinwë shoved those memories out of his head to see what Moryo was shouting about, then. “You’re setting him off again. Maybe he has more decency than to fuck the first woman he sees.” 

“Thank you. I think,” Nelyafinwë muttered, sitting up and stilling his foot. How long had he been jittering? Fëanor once said he’d sedate him when he couldn’t sit still in a council meeting, and Nelyafinwë had really thought he would do it. He’d meant to leave that anxious habit long behind. “I’ll turn your offer of discrepancy down, Káno. I would rather get to know someone before- well.” 

_ “I would rather get to know- _ ugh!” Tyelko leaned his head back against Huan, who grunted. “Do you know how prudish you sound sometimes?” 

How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? “I did not think it would be such an extreme opinion to have,” he grumbled. 

“Yeah, well,” Makalaurë joined back in, leaning forward to take one of the rabbits off the spit. “We’ll get you a woman when you get back, mark my words.” 

The conversation dropped from there, the food ready, and Nelyafinwë could not put into words how relieved he was. How was he supposed to explain to his brothers that he’d never  _ been _ with a woman, that he was too scared? That didn’t matter anymore, not now, though, so Nelyafinwë sat up and joined his brothers for dinner. It was their last dinner together for a long, long time, but none of them would have known.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short one sorry y'all
> 
> comment, kudos, whatever floats your boat!


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ooh boy it's about to get dark rip Nelyo's sanity (and my own)
> 
> Nelyo tries to bamboozle the Enemy with a genius, brilliant plan, and ends up being bamboozled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this'll be the last of the spam for now but don't worry I'll be back for more soon

In Valinor, the morning light had been gentle, thoughtful, and a blended silver-gold. The Trees shone in every crack, every crevice they could reach, meaning to wake every creature under their great light. 

The morning light in Mithrim was not morning light at all. The stars were all they had, trillions and trillions of far-away lamps, hardly creeping past anything other than the surface. But they had woken in it before, and Nelyafinwë did the same that day, rising from his stiff bed by a call. 

“My King!” 

“Yes, yes.” Nelyafinwë got to his feet and stretched his arms — he’d slept on the right one weird, it was numb. “We leave as soon as the men are ready.” 

“Yes, sir!” 

The faceless voice was gone before Nelyafinwë could realize it was the same head captain that’d been his grandfather’s. His mind was still waking up, hands moving on their own as he dressed and strapped on his armor, all of which was still scuffed and embedded with dried blood in every crease or crevice. He could clean it after this skirmish, whatever would come of it, when he was sure to get bloodied again. Why bother washing if this was the dress of the Noldor? 

Makalaurë was standing just outside his tent when he exited, not saying a word or giving a pause before wrapping him in a hug, tight enough to dig the armor into his chainmail underneath. 

“You had better come back,” he crooned. His voice was oddly rough, in the same way that it’d been when he saw their grandfather’s murdered body. A chill swept down Nelyafinwë’s spine. 

“I said I would, so I will,” he assured, kissing the top of Makalaurë’s head before parting them. “I will see you later tonight, or tomorrow morning. Keep everyone calm, alright? You’re in charge while I’m gone.” 

Makalaurë nodded silently and Nelyafinwë smiled back, moving on to slip out of their circle of tents. There were the rest of them, waiting, and all fifty soldiers on their horses, only a few needing to mount. The twins held each other tightly, looking to be on the verge of tears, but Tyelko stood behind them, arms crossed and smug as ever. Moryo wouldn’t look at him. Curvo held little Tyelperinquar in a blanket, and the baby was much cleaner than he had been the day before. 

“Little Tyelpe,” Nelyafinwë cooed, roughing up Curvo’s hair and stroking down Tyelperinquar’s nose with one finger. When he turned back up to Curvo, his jaw was set and he couldn’t meet his eyes for more than a second. “Keep him safe, alright? I’ll be back soon.” 

Curvo didn’t say anything. Nelyafinwë took one more glance at his nephew and turned, walking through the rows of horses to his Calcarocco waiting patiently. This would be fine. Everything was in order, everyone knew what they were doing, and that chill had departed from his gut. He was calm as he mounted his mare, taking up the reins and resting his elbow comfortably against the hilt of the sword his father had forged for him. They departed wordlessly, leaving the camp behind.

The ride was not a hard one, not as hard as Nelyafinwë remembered from the Battle. Some servants or soldiers had cleared away much of the corpses that remained, so their path was clear into the mountain passage. It was cold, bitterly cold, and that was Nelyafinwë’s only complaint. He had steeled himself to meet the Lieutenant the night before and since the moment they set off. He was ready to see the look of panic when they began to overrun the Dark Lord’s creations, when they annihilated them for the second time in the row. 

The empty plain laying in front of Angband and Thangorodrim beyond was empty, save the rotting bodies. They were just over the mountain path, just in sight of the Gates, but there was no meeting crew. It was not as was written in the letter, and although that’s exactly what Nelyafinwë had expected, it still set him on edge. 

“Stay alert!” he called back. The shifting of hooves on the earth was enough to give away he wasn’t the only one that was nervous. He turned, then, meaning to check and make sure his men were in place, all of them present, when-

An arrow struck the temple of a soldier and knocked him, dead instantly, off his horse. The chill didn’t have time to settle; it rushed in, freezing him solid, and as his battalion turned to face the charging force of orcs and fire-beasts he couldn’t move. Why couldn’t he move? His hand rested over the hilt of his sword, utterly frozen, even while his mare turned without prompting and backed away. It didn’t matter — they were being circled in. 

“King!” the captain screamed, Finwë’s captain, horse backing with his, a few more dashing past them, trying to escape. “What do we do?” 

A fire-beast stepped up to the hill on their right, shaking the ground, sending tremors through all of them, and a great flame roared inside Nelyafinwë. “Attack!” he screamed, not to the captain but to all of them, raising his sword high. “Charge!” 

And they did. It was a few minutes that everything seemed to be going their way, that they had a hold of the Battle as they had the first time, cutting down orc after orc, slaying everything in their path. There were archers, somewhere up high, though, and they were doing quite a good job of picking off horses. Screams mingled with the neighs, the horses attempting to flee, but it was only when a fire-beast struck a retreating horse with its whip and cut it clean in half did the soldiers begin to panic, too. 

The force was too great, and Nelyafinwë had promised to retreat — but retreat how? The mountain path was overrun with dark creatures and fire-beasts, blocking their only way out that wasn’t a long, long distance back. 

“Attack!” Nelyafinwë tried, screaming as loud as he could but still drowned out in the clatter. A spear stuck in Calcarocco’s side and she stumbled, but another caught her on the other side and Nelyafinwë was bucked off, slamming flat on his back into the mud. Two orcs stood over her body, a third bringing its jagged sword down onto her neck, and Nelyafinwë couldn’t stop the cry that escaped his throat. 

“There ‘e is,” one of them said, running for him next, but Nelyafinwë stood and stumbled back and drove him right through. Shadows overturned the stars, blotting out all light but the flames on the ground-trembling beasts, and so Nelyafinwë spun around more frantically, backing away all while cutting and slashing and stabbing. His arms burned and his legs were numb, not sure where or how they were moving. 

A club struck his right arm. The impact of it was blunt and brutal, the bone in his upper arm snapping under the force of it, sword clattering to the ground. Nelyafinwë wasn’t sure if he screamed, but he must have because he’d never felt such  _ pain _ like that. His left hand grabbed his sword almost involuntarily, but when he stood to call for men to come to his aid he found them all slaughtered, all but one last voice peeping through the chaos. 

“Nelyafinwë!” she screamed, Finwë’s captain, reaching for him aimlessly as the orc holding her back slit her throat. Nelyafinwë had not expected that much blood to spray from the wound. 

“Oh, we got ‘im.” One of the orc’s to his left heaved up a hammer, something that looked too heavy to hold. Nelyafinwë stumbled back further, raising his sword and slashing the air, but they must’ve had enough of his panic because the orc with the hammer swung it forward. It connected with his leg, somewhere just under the knee, shattering his shin and sending a shockwave of pain up his spine that was so intense he collapsed. His ears were ringing but he didn’t know why, and an orc was blowing loud into a horn, and at his feet was a fire-beast waiting to strike down on him. 

“Please, please please please-” he choked, crawling back through the mud and catching his hair under his hand but continuing, he didn’t care how muddy his hair got. “Oh, please- please please don’t kill me,  _ please-” _

“Will  _ someone _ shut him up!” 

Another orc came forward and tore the sword from his grasp, clubbing him in the left shoulder, probably not breaking something this time but bruising it horribly. He didn’t know why  _ that _ had been their plan to shut him up because it only made him scream louder, trying to get to his feet, turning away in the mud- 

The club smashed against his left arm as soon as he extended it, cracking and snapping both those bones in his forearm. When the orc raised the club again Nelyafinwë didn’t scream, only cried and whimpered and held his arms close to his chest. Maybe if he was quiet, so quiet, they would forget he was there, and Nelyafinwë could crawl all the way back to Mithrim. Maybe they would kill him right there, but if they did he didn’t think he could face his father yet, not so soon, so Nelyafinwë resolved to curl up and breathe in the aromas of earth and blood in the puddles of mud. 

“Someone haul him up!” 

Nelyafinwë lifted his head hastily, meaning to see where they were and curl up tighter, but that was the wrong move. A fist came right at his eye, rattling his brain, making everything so black and white and flashy. The next moment arms were around his wrists, yanking him up, shifting around the bones that were already in pieces inside his flesh. He screamed, he couldn’t  _ not _ scream then, holding himself on his leg that wasn’t ruined while he held himself close. 

“Fucking baby,” someone spat, someone from behind him, the same beast that fisted a hand in his hair and  _ pulled. _

“AH!” he shrieked, trying to turn, arms instinctively raising to his head. That was another wrong move. Someone took his wrists and held them in front of him, wrapping them so tightly in rope that Nelyafinwë was half sure they’d be squeezed right off. 

“Alright, move!” 

A hand behind him shoved again, this time forward. It was no surprise when Nelyafinwë tipped forward and landed on his side into the mud, no way to catch himself with a shattered leg. 

“Will someone throw him over their shoulder?” 

“He’s too big, Cap.” 

Nelyafinwë tried once more to wriggle upright, to move towards where he thought Mithrim was (or at least anywhere the orcs weren’t), but two pairs of hands grasped his ankles and pulled him that way. He slid easily, slick with mud and gore, so they decided that was the way he was going to be carried and started off. 

The ground shook all the time, constant with the number of fire-beasts that had joined the squabble. There had to be at least twice the amount than there’d been at the Battle, all of them blotting out the sky and filling the air with smoke. The orcs that held his ankles began to chat idly right as they started off, as they ascended a hill. Nelyafinwë closed his eyes and sobbed as quietly as he could.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk about you guys but I am far too soft to comfortably write horror and gore so! if you don't like that stuff this'll be the fic for you. the Angband chapters are vague and there aren't really many of them (under ten, I think, and I'll combine a lot of them...) so the darkness won't last for long!
> 
> comment, kudos, whatever floats your boat!


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